Cinco de Mayhem

by Ann Myers

  “That sounds like a right nice plan,” Addie said, flouncing in, hairnet delicately balanced on her wig. She held out a tray of mostly unburned cookies.

  “Sugar cookies,” she said proudly. “With extra salt. Salted everything’s popular, isn’t it? Salted caramel, salted chocolate . . . so I doubled up the amount. What do you think?”

  I settled on “Mmmm” to avoid bad manners and because the salinity had dried out my tongue.

  “These will be lovely with big pots of tea,” Flori said. “Addie, why don’t you join us? We might have a little acting job for you, dear.”

  A while later Addie clutched Don’s blackmailing phone with one hand and a bag of hard cinnamon candies in the other. “Okay, let me practice once or twice.” She popped a handful of candies in her mouth and said in a low, garbled voice I barely recognized, “I know what you did. Ha, ha, ha.”

  “Perfect,” Flori said.

  “Amazing,” I agreed. “But instead of ‘Ha, ha,’ tell them where we want to meet. The bandstand at eight P.M. tonight.”

  “Cinco de Mayo,” Flori said. “A day of battle. Perfect, and the killer won’t have much time to prepare.”

  Neither would we.

  Addie crunched some of her candies. Cinnamon and anxiety filled the air.

  “It’s okay,” I said, to myself as well as Addie. “You’re calling the city health department first. Ask the receptionist for Gerald Jenkins. When he picks up, give him your lines, and remember to do the different accent so you won’t be recognized.”

  Our plan counted on the killer actually answering and us luring him or her out, without giving ourselves away in the process.

  Addie shifted her candies from cheek to puffing cheek. “Okay, got it. Here it goes.” She asked for Jenkins in her candy-garbled voice.

  My heartbeat increased as his line began to ring. I halfway hoped he wouldn’t pick up, but he did.

  “Oh!” Addie said, before switching into a gravely New Jersey mobster voice. “Hey! I know what youz did. Meet at the bandstand, tomorrow at midnight, or you’ll swim with the fishes. Ha, ha, ha.” She hung up. “Oops. I said ‘Ha’ and messed up the day and time, didn’t I?”

  I let Flori do the reassuring. “It’s fine,” she said. “For the best. Tomorrow gives us more time to get ready. All we have to do now is call the two other numbers and, if someone answers, say the very same thing, okay Addie? Think of that as a practice run.”

  The second number rang fifteen times before we all agreed that Addie should hang up. For the last number, I counted a dozen rings. Flori murmured prayers and crossed her fingers. Then the ringing stopped.

  “Oy!” Addie said in a burst of Australian. “I know what you did, mate. Be at the bandstand, midnight tonight! We make a deal, or I’m calling the cops.”

  She hung up, hands shaking. “Shoot! I messed up big-time. I said tonight, didn’t I? Midnight! That’s late, isn’t it? I got scared.” Before Flori or I could ask, she said, “All I heard was breathing. There was someone there, listening. I can’t believe I said tonight. You’re not really going to meet them, are you? I could call back and cancel or reschedule.”

  Flori was getting up, one hand on the particularly arthritic knee that gave her trouble when bad weather approached. “Visiting hours at the jail,” she said, pointing to the wall clock.

  There would be no calling back to cancel. Addie knew that too. “Well then, I’m jolly well coming with you tonight,” she said.

  Setting an appointment with a killer has some major drawbacks. There’s the waiting, which I hate. Of course, there’s the part about meeting with a murderer too. I spent some of the time with Celia, taking her out to Andiamo, our favorite Italian place. Over dinners of lasagna and butternut ravioli, I got a bit emotional. “Celia, if anything ever happens to me, you know I love you,” I said. “More than anything.”

  Celia stabbed a ravioli. “Sure, okay, Mom.”

  “And your father’s a good man. He made a mistake about Linda, that’s all.” And about all his philandering and fussy food preferences, although even in my emotional state I wouldn’t bring those up.

  “Okay . . .” Celia said, frowning. “What’s going on, Mom?”

  I wasn’t about to involve my daughter. I glossed over the murderer part. “I have a late appointment tonight. No big deal. Something with Flori. Would you like to stay overnight with your dad?”

  “I’m not a kid, Mom. I think that Hugo and I can fend for ourselves.” She snagged a bite of my lasagna. “But sure, if you want.”

  I stopped myself from blathering on about what she should do and know if I never returned. Instead, I chipped away at the delicious charred cheese on the side of my lasagna dish and chided my nerves. Flori would be there, armed with her Taser and tape recorder. I’d be wearing my own tape recorder. Addie would be there too, and she said she’d bring her cousin Jesús, the airbrusher. Jesús was also a wrestler, specifically a minor superstar of the local lucha libre circuit. He wore a mask and spandex pants, had a signature move of smashing prop guitars on opponents, and worked under the stage name El Macho.

  “He has a running gig at the Golden Owl,” Addie had told us. “He’s not all that big, but he’s good at hitting stuff, and with his mask and all his makeup, he’s kind of scary.” She’d shivered and added, “What’s really scary was that person breathing on the phone. That was terrifying.”

  Jake called when I got home from dropping Celia off in front of Manny’s place. “Care for a margarita?” he asked. “It is Cinco de Mayo . . .”

  Yes! I wanted to yell. “Ummm . . .” I said instead. “Flori and I have this thing tonight.” I couldn’t go tipsy to a blackmail meeting, and I didn’t want Jake to know what I was planning. I suspected that he wouldn’t approve of fake extortion of a real extortionist/murderer at midnight.

  “Girls night out again?” Jake said, his tone suggesting skepticism.

  “Right,” I said, through guilt pangs.

  “Rita,” he said. “If you’re tailing someone—”

  “We’re not! No tailing,” I said, and realized how snippy that sounded. “I mean . . .” We weren’t tailing. We were luring a murderer, which was worse, since we didn’t know who to expect.

  A long silence on the other end made my stomach flop.

  “How about tomorrow night?” I asked. “There’ll be fewer people out.”

  He had a work dinner tomorrow. “We keep missing each other, don’t we?” he said, and my heart sank. Maybe the new point in our relationship wasn’t one going forward. Maybe we’d realize that we didn’t mesh. Jake had another call coming in. “I’ll call you again later,” he said, and I hoped he meant it.

  Flori, Addie, and I met at eleven thirty across the street from the bandstand, under the covered walkway of the Palace of the Governors. A nearby streetlamp flickered, casting shadows down the brick walkway. We moved to the shelter of the deep inset doorway of the Palace. Addie had come straight from a singing gig and shivered in her black cocktail dress and fluffy shawl. Flori wore her black karate suit and a trench coat with bulging pockets. She handed me a tape recorder and offered me my choice of Taser, knife, or gun.

  “It’s Linda’s,” she said of the gun. “I always told her she shouldn’t have such a thing.”

  I feared guns. I’d likely drop it and shoot my own foot before defending myself. Same with the Taser. The one time I’d tried it, I accidentally zapped a parking meter out of commission. I considered a knife. Knives I could handle. On the other hand, I could never imagine sticking another human. I declined. “I have my phone and the tape recorder in my pocket. You two are my backup. Text if you see someone suspicious coming.”

  Addie’s brow wrinkled. “Jesús called and said he can’t make it. He has a special Cinco de Mayo match.”

  “No worries,” I lied, thinking how great it would be to have El Macho in his mask as backup. I repressed a nervous giggle, imagining a pro-wrestling scenario. I was worried. The throngs of young people wh
o’d been out celebrating earlier were nearly gone. A single man wobbled across the Plaza. Over by the closed Five and Dime, a group of guys laughed drunkenly.

  We took up our positions. Addie went around the corner to a side door of the Palace, where she could watch the streets to my north and west. Flori took cover in her car, which she’d parked near the southwest corner of the Plaza. From there she could see most of the Plaza, or at least as much as her bifocals and binoculars allowed. I went to the back side of the bandstand, standing near but not on the spot where Napoleon was killed. From my vantage point, Flori’s white whale of a Cadillac glowed under the streetlight. All I could see of her was an occasional flash from her binoculars.

  I kept in the shadows with my back to the bandstand so that no one could sneak up behind me. Or so I thought. A few minutes later a whispered “Hey” nearly knocked me over. I righted myself and fumbled to turn on the tape recorder in my jacket pocket.

  What I recorded was my best friend apologizing. “Sorry!” Cass said from the bandstand stage. Although the stage was only a few feet off the ground, she seemed to tower above me. I felt foolish and very glad it was her.

  Cass looked down with concern. “What are you doing?”

  I avoided her question by asking my own. “What are you doing? How did you know I was here?”

  “I didn’t. I was walking home from another dreadful late event, and I spotted Flori with her binoculars. She said you were over here. She told me to sneak up and see if you were ‘aware’ of your full perimeter. What’s she mean?”

  “Ancient Chinese war tactics,” I said, checking my watch. It was ten minutes to midnight, and I didn’t want our mystery prey spooked. I quickly explained to Cass what we were doing. Then, as much as I hated to do it, I told my best friend to leave.

  “Rita, this is insane!” she said. “No! I’m not going.”

  “Will you wait with Flori? She shouldn’t be alone. I’m okay. Addie’s watching from over there.” I pointed toward the dark corner of the Palace, where I hoped Addie was okay too.

  Cass hesitated, warned me to be “aware,” and then left, walking quickly toward Flori’s car. I resumed my scanning of the Plaza, vowing to up my awareness. At a few minutes to midnight, movement caught my eye. The silhouette of a woman, petite with long, bouncy curls, passed by a streetlamp down the block on Palace Avenue. Was that Crystal? My heartbeat sped up and my phone vibrated. I glanced down and saw that Addie had sent a text, warning me about the woman, who was now looking around as if lost or indecisive. What was she doing? Was she getting up her nerve? I was about to lose mine. I inched a few steps around the bandstand, trying to get a better view. I was so fixated on the figure that I forgot to watch my back.

  “Rita? Is it you?”

  This time I jumped so far I banged my already bruised elbow on the bandstand railing. So much for enhanced awareness.

  “Oh, Brigitte!” I said, vexed at the interruption, as well as my nerves. “Please, get into the shadows.” I looked back toward Palace Avenue and cursed under my breath. The shadowy figure with bouncy hair was gone, and the church bells were two chimes into counting out midnight.

  “I was leaving OhLaLa late,” Brigitte was saying. “And here you are, in the dark, by yourself. What are you doing, Rita?”

  “You have to go,” I told her, ignoring my vibrating phone. “I’m waiting for someone and . . .”

  Brigitte was staring at me intently, her face serene yet with a hard, expectant edge.

  “You are waiting?” she prompted. “You have an appointment? Here? At midnight?”

  Why would she ask that? Adrenaline spiked through my brain. Brigitte had an alibi for Napoleon’s death, didn’t she? Jake and Cass both said so. She couldn’t be the killer. Still, something nagged at my memory. Something about tamales. I attempted to cover my confusion by babbling. “It’s Crystal. I may have seen her over by that streetlamp. I think she’s the murderer. Like you said, she probably had an affair with Napoleon and he ditched her and she got mad. Then Don, he knew, didn’t he? Bartenders—and hot dog guys—they know everything about everybody and he was here on the Plaza that night. He blackmailed her and she had to kill him. Probably she framed Linda because it was convenient or maybe she was jealous of Linda’s fabulous tamales. All this could be about tamales. Tragic, isn’t it?” I stopped to gulp air. Did she know all too well? She seemed to know what I was thinking.

  “Tamales,” she said, her tone flat. “Your friend Linda should be proud. Napoleon, he loved those mole tamales Linda made for Cinco de Mayo. He even wanted the recipe.”

  “Yep, she sure makes great tamales!” I said, inching away.

  Brigitte stepped in front of me, blocking my path. “Do you know I begged to cook at Crepe Empire?” She waved a finger a fraction from my face. I leaned back until my back hit the bandstand.

  She leaned closer. “Napoleon, he said no, I had no talent. The last we spoke, he crowed like a rooster. Even a tamale was a work of art compared to my cooking, he said. A tamale!”

  “Horrible man,” I said, trying to quell the tremble in my voice. “Your crepes are delicious. Perfect.”

  Brigitte stared at me. In a creepily steady but louder monotone, she said, “Of course they are. I am a Frenchwoman. Napoleon said I was a mere accountant, a number pusher. He never appreciated me.”

  “Awful!” I squeaked. “Well, it looks like Crystal’s not showing. I better go get my backup.” I emphasized backup.

  Brigitte grabbed my coat sleeve. “Backup? But we are okay here together, non? We are friends, Rita?”

  “Of course we’re friends,” I said, inching away. “And my other friends are waiting for me nearby, helping watch for Crystal.”

  She pulled me back into the shadows. “You will signal to your other friends that you’re okay. Then, as you say, ‘we make a deal.’”

  Addie’s words, the phrase she used on the phone to the spooky silent listener. A chill froze my body, and something sharp jabbed my ribs. I looked down. The knife Brigitte held could filet a side of beef, or me. Knees wobbling, I managed to whimper, “Brigitte, I need to go.”

  “Désolé, Rita. Identifying Don as my blackmailer, that was very helpful. But then you call and try to trap me?” She jabbed my ribs. “Wave to your friends.”

  Brigitte and I stepped out as one. I waved stiffly. Brigitte waved too, with the arm looped around my shoulders. Some boisterous college-boy types walked by. If they noticed us at all, they probably took us for revelers like themselves.

  “Now for our deal,” she said, drawing me back toward the bandstand.

  A mouthful of Addie’s salt cookies couldn’t have dried my tongue more. “What kind of deal?”

  “One where you go away and all is as it should be. Me, with my restaurant and crepes and Jake Strong. He loves me. I can tell. We are perfect together.”

  Fear tingled through every nerve, along with anger, mostly at myself. I should have told Celia where I kept my will. I should have taken tai chi with Flori or wrestling with Addie’s cousin. I should have listened to Jake. I blinked hard, confused by what had to be a mirage formed from sheer terror. A cowboy was approaching across the Plaza, hands on his belt where six-shooters would be, boots clonking on the pavement.

  “Ladies,” Jake said, and tipped his hat.

  Chapter 32

  Jake sauntered closer, relaxed as if out for a stroll with Winston. I tried to warn him without moving my body. Eyes wide, I stared in the direction of the blade, which I feared was mostly covered by the sleeve of Brigitte’s coat.

  “Well, I am a fortunate man tonight,” Jake said slowly, approaching within arm’s reach. “It’s not often I happen across lovely ladies.”

  I willed him to yank me away. He, however, was waxing folksy about the pale hazy ring around the moon and some saying about cattle. Cattle? Didn’t he notice the tension? The knife? If nothing else, couldn’t he sense that Brigitte was way off her rocker?

  He caught my eye and nodded ever
so slightly, raising my spirits that he understood. To Brigitte, he said, “Brigitte, I surely did enjoy our dance the other night.” He reached a hand toward her, as if inviting her to two-step.

  She loosened her hold on my arm and gushed that she’d enjoyed their dance too.

  Jake continued, sounding like a lonely cowboy. “Here I was, out wandering, looking for a special lady to celebrate Cinco de Mayo with after Rita turned me down.” He twisted his lips into a sad smile. “Seeing you, Brigitte, makes me yearn for a dance out here under the moonlight.”

  Brigitte jabbed me. “You turned him down?” she said, her low voice coming out as a hiss. “Fool.”

  “Stupid of me,” I said, meaning it.

  “Where?” she demanded, addressing Jake. “Where would we dance? It’s past midnight. You know this town. No nightlife.”

  I’d had just about enough nightlife. I said I’d get out of their way.

  “No you won’t,” she said in a hissing whisper. “You’re still in my way. In everything!”

  Holding out his hand, Jake moved closer. “I sure could use that dance, Brigitte. How about a waltz, right here on the Plaza, holding each other close.” His brow wrinkled. “Rita, sorry, but I have a new leading lady.”

  Brigitte’s loosening grasp suggested that she was tempted but not taking the bait completely. She stepped backward, dragging me with her. “Rita and I have some business first. A deal to make. Meet me up on this stage in fifteen minutes and I’m all yours, Jake.”

  And I’d be out of the way. How? Stabbed? Smacked on the back of the head? A quick poisoning? I decided I might as well clear up some questions. “Did you try to run me over?” I asked as she and I backed down the sidewalk. Jake followed, keeping a few steps back.

  Brigitte kept moving. “Try?” she said in a harsh whisper. “It is not my fault that you fell off the street. I am glad, however. You were correct to direct my attention from the health inspector to Don Busco. Very clever. Too clever.”