by Ann Myers
Let wasn’t quite the right word. My daughter had arrived in the world with a strong personality and even stronger willpower. In seventh grade, Celia decided she was done with group music. No more marching band with its itchy uniforms and the saxophone that I loved and Manny annoyingly claimed was too masculine. And definitely no more choir, which overlapped with art club. Mom was right in that I hadn’t tried to sway Celia. I’d learned early on to pick my battles.
The pleased look on Mom’s face suggested she was already imagining the grandmotherly bragging rights she’d have at her quilting and book groups back home. Before Mom got her hopes too high, I repeated what my elderly boss, Flori, told me.
“The main roles in big events like these often go to members of old-time Santa Fe families,” I said. “And by old, I mean centuries. Generations old.”
“Think positively, Rita,” said Mom, of all people. My mother ranked in the upper tier of worst-case scenario forecasters, right up there with Flori’s daughter Linda. I was both disappointed and relieved that Linda was out of town visiting a newborn grandbaby in California. Mom and Linda got along well. A little too well, when it came to whipping up each other’s worries.
When Lorena came by, Mom complimented her pie and asked for more water. “We’re even higher up at this pie shop,” she pointed out in dire tones. “We need to keep up our hydration.”
I dutifully downed ice water and forced myself not to eat all my pie before Celia arrived. She burst in a few minutes later, unable to keep her teenage ennui expression in place for long. She grinned at her grandmother. “Gran! You’re here!”
Mom stood to kiss Celia on both cheeks and urged her to get a slice of pie. When Celia returned, she carried an extra-large slab of another of my favorites, apple with two surprise ingredients: fire-roasted green chiles and a cheddar cheese crust. Celia offered her grandmother the first bite. Mom surprised me by accepting.
“Mmm . . .” Mom said, after chewing thoughtfully. “This is actually a lovely crust. Your grandfather, Celia, always requested a thick slice of aged cheddar with his apple pie.”
I allowed myself another moment of satisfaction. The pie was working its magic. Mom was finding common ground with New Mexico and expanding her horizons. My mind slipped into more planning. I could get us all tickets to some holiday choral concerts, combining sightseeing in beautiful churches with Mom’s love of music. We’d block off time to cheer on Celia. Most importantly, I’d keep myself and Flori out of trouble. My beloved boss and I had a propensity for stumbling into—and solving—crimes. Not this holiday! No sleuthing for us. No crime or chaos, just a nice, normal, festive Christmas.
Mom was quizzing Celia about the play. “Now, what is this big news, darling? Does it involve singing? You have the most wonderful voice.”
Celia looked up from her pie, eyes gleaming under the heavy mascara. “You’ll never guess, Gran. I got the greatest part. The best!” The budding dramatist made us wait while she nibbled a bit of cheesy pie crust. “Okay,” she said. “You ready for this? Prepare yourselves . . .”
Mom and I leaned in, caught up in the excitement.
“Is it the Holy Mother Mary—” Mom started to say.
“Nope! Better!” Celia raised her fork. “I’m the devil! Awesome, right?”
Mom choked on her coconut cream. “Did you say devil?” she said. The hand covering her mouth only partially hid her look of horror.
“Yep!” Celia triumphantly stabbed a chunk of chile. “That’s right. The devil. Lucifer. Beelzebub! The fallen angel himself. There are three, and I’m the second one. So awesome.” She took another bite, shaking her head, seemingly in disbelief at her good fortune.
Mom’s expression suggested she felt otherwise.
“Celia, that’s wonderful!” I said, amping up my praise to cover Mom’s stunned silence. Celia bubbled on happily about how she planned to customize the basic horns she’d been given. Red velvet, she thought, with gold flames made of reflective foil.
Mom, thankfully, remained silent, even as Celia pondered whether we could add real flames to her pitchfork. I knew I’d hear Mom’s thoughts on a holiday devil later. I focused on savoring both my pie and my daughter’s enthusiasm. However, a dark feeling had descended over me and seemingly Lorena too. The pie shop owner cocked her head, scowling at a distant tinkling of jingle bells. My thoughts shifted from Satan to the questionable Santa. Something told me that my quest for a quiet Christmas wouldn’t be as easy as pie.
Chapter 2
“Celia’s a Las Posadas devil,” I told Flori the next morning. It was Monday just after opening. Frost glazed the café’s paned windows, deep-set in thick adobe walls, and a winter storm loomed over the mountains. Inside Tres Amigas Café, however, a fire crackled in the fireplace and comforting scents of fresh coffee and gingerbread muffins filled the air. The little café occupies a historic house that retains its homey feel. Wood beams, dark and cracked with age, cross the ceiling, and the softly rounded Saltillo tiles on the floor remind me of pumpkin pie.
Flori loves holidays, especially Christmas. She’d decorated to the nines, or, if possible, the elevens. Pine swags and red ribbons adorned the windowsills, and paper snowflakes, made by her great-grandkids, fluttered from the beams. The Christmas tree in the front corner brushed the ceiling and practically sagged with locally made ornaments, from chile-pepper garlands to punched-tin doves and angels with wings of golden straw filigree. There were gingerbread men and women too, like Mom made. Flori, however, used a cookie cutter with a Day of the Dead–style skeleton imprint. Some of her great-grandkids had been over last week to give the gingerbread skeletons festive icing hats and green and red femurs.
Flori stood at the stove stirring similarly festive vats of green and red chile sauces. She stopped her synchronized stirring to turn to me. “A devil? How wonderful!” she exclaimed. “Oh, Rita, you must be so proud.”
Now this is the reaction I wanted from Mom. After Celia went to bed last night, Mom had shared her thoughts, whether I wanted to hear them or not. Satan, Mom contended, had no place at Christmas. Moreover, even if he did—which he didn’t—he should not be played by a nice young lady, particularly her eldest granddaughter. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t proper, not for Christmas, Mom reiterated. She stopped just short of demanding how she would tell her friends back home.
“Celia’s pretty excited,” I said, carefully dropping blue corn batter onto the hot waffle iron. The iron hissed and sputtered, like the devils who made Las Posadas so special. During the play, Mary and Joseph, the Wise Men, and musicians and singers in period costumes parade slowly through downtown. The procession is somber and reverent, until the expectant couple approaches an inn and asks for shelter. That’s when the devil appears, heckling and yelling that there’s no room. The crowd responds with boos and jeers. Celia would love it. Hopefully Mom would too, once she saw the first performance this Wednesday.
I peeked through the pass-through to see the café’s small dining room filling up fast. Luckily, our part-time helper, Addie, became full-time around the holidays. Addie, short for Adelina, is a local girl who fancies herself the New Mexican twin of British superstar crooner Adele. The two share a birthday, as well as a love of belting out soulful songs.
That, however, is pretty much where similarity ends. For one, the real Adele has moved on with her hairstyle, switching from a bouffant wig to a sleek bob. Addie still favors her big blond hairpieces, and I don’t blame her. The wigs add a certain presence, useful given Addie’s other challenge: her weight. Despite her best efforts to achieve Adele-like curves, our Addie remains a stick-thin size four. If only I had that problem. The lack of a natural British accent also plagues Addie, though that doesn’t keep her from trying.
“Ta! Cheerio!” Addie called out brightly, waving goodbye to some customers. She reached back to hand me fresh order slips. “Two more specials, me love,” she said, smoothing her Union Jack–print apron.
“Two orders of papas fritas,
over-medium eggs, por favor,” I relayed to Juan, our griddle maestro. I watched in admiration as he turned the golden potatoes, flipped eggs and corn tortillas, and laid out bacon for another order. No movement was wasted by Juan. After one more flip, he scooped the potatoes onto plates, placed rolled tortillas on the sides, and handed the dishes to me, along with a rare compliment.
“Tell Celia congratulations,” he said. “My uncle once played the devil. It’s a big honor. Huge.”
I thanked Juan on Celia’s behalf and took the plates over to Flori to finish.
“Red or green?” she asked, ladles poised. New Mexico’s official state question refers to chile choice and is a phrase I utter so often, it appears in my dreams.
“Christmas,” I replied. This time of year, lots of customers ordered “Christmas,” or red chile on one side and green on the other. In my humble opinion, Christmas is always the best choice. It’s not only pretty, it’s like getting two dishes in one.
Flori draped sauces over the potatoes and I brought them back to Juan to top with melty Monterey Jack cheese, a dollop of sour cream, the jiggling eggs, and a sprinkling of chives. The dishes definitely looked good enough to devour. My stomach rumbled. I’d had only coffee and a chunk of muffin this morning, my attempt at a pre-holiday diet. Who was I kidding? I eyed the glorious mountain of goodness. Diets and I never stuck together. I hefted the plates, which counted as exercise, and headed for the dining room.
“Two specials, incoming,” I announced. I’m prone to serving disasters, and in situations involving slippery eggs and lava-hot chile, I give customers fair warning I’m within slopping distance.
My neighbor from across the road, Dalia Crawford, looked up and clasped her hands together, sparking a clatter of silver bangles and crystal rings. More crystals in lavender, lemon, and amber hues dangled from her neck, along with two pairs of rhinestone-crusted glasses and a chunk of turquoise in the shape of a bear. Her hair reached the middle of her back, longer than my mother would deem proper for a fifty-something woman, and was woven into a wide braid. Dalia had a tech wizard’s fortune but a back-to-the-earth hippie’s soul. She followed signs gleaned from the stars, tarot cards, and tea leaves, as well as a medley of Eastern, Western, and Native philosophies and religions. Lately, I’d often spotted smoke rising from the sweat lodge tucked in her back garden. I’d also been the recipient of her well-meaning sage smudgings, prayer wheel chants, and—best of all—homemade jellies, pickles, and baked goods.
Tucking a napkin over floaty layers of cotton blouses, she said to her male dining companion, “This is one of my favorite dishes. You’re in for a treat.”
“No doubt,” he said, beaming more at me than the eggs. I guessed he was in his late thirties, like I joked I still was instead of my true into-my-forties age of forty-two. He was also—objectively speaking—gorgeous. Perfectly coiffed golden locks fell in soft waves just above the collar of his tweedy jacket. His cheekbones were worthy of Greek statues, and mascara models would envy his lashes. If Mom were here she’d be eyeing his ring finger—well-moisturized and lacking any evidence of a ring—unaware that I already had a handsome boyfriend.
My cheeks flushed, both from the man’s sexy wink and the guilt of boyfriend nondisclosure. The flush flared when the door chimed and said boyfriend stepped inside. Jake Strong caught my eye, tipped his Stetson, and showed off some of his best features, those twinkling steel-blue eyes and the adorable crinkle that fanned them when he smiled. My stomach did a happy flutter.
“Barton,” Dalia was saying, “You know our new girl devil, Celia Martin? This is her mother and my best-ever neighbor, Rita. . . . ah . . . Oh, Rita, shame on me! I should know this, do you still go by Martin too?”
I shook my head with such force that if I’d been still holding any eggs, they’d be airborne. “Nope, Lafitte.” No more Martin for me. That was Manny’s name. I was through with it and the philandering cop.
Barton smiled. “Lafitte. What a lovely name. I knew a gentleman in New Orleans by that name once. He had your beautiful eyes. Deep and expressive.”
I started to worry that my blush would stick permanently as I denied knowing any Louisiana Lafittes.
Dalia saved me by continuing her introductions. “Rita, this is Barton Hunter. He’s a specialist on Native American artifact repatriation and has come all the way from out East to help my sister Judith rid herself of that awful, terrible, toxic collection our grandfather left her. You know Judith, don’t you, Rita? She organizes Las Posadas and lives a few blocks down from us on Canyon Road?” Dalia shook her head and mumbled some more horribles and terribles as she dug into her breakfast.
I frowned, wondering what kind of horrible, terrible collection Judith inherited. Something else baffled me even more. “Judith Crundall’s your sister?” I blurted out. I knew Judith Crundall casually and had heard others talk about her. Some cruelly—or fearfully—called her an old battle-ax. Judith was no-nonsense and strict, a woman who suffered no fools or incorrect café orders. She kind of intimidated me sometimes, but I admired her too. She spoke her mind and stuck up for good causes and supported events like Las Posadas. In both demeanor and dress, though, I could hardly imagine two less likely sisters than her and Dalia.
Dalia poured hot water from a teapot into her mug and dunked in the bag of roasted-barley tea she’d brought herself. “Funny, isn’t it? Daddy always said we shared the Crundall nose and that’s it.” She pointed to the tip in her prominent sniffer. “We’re only half sisters, and I’m fifteen years younger. Our father left her mother for mine. Scandalous for the old-money Crundalls, him running off to a commune up in the hills with a younger woman. Judith’s side of the family got all the money and property so they couldn’t complain too much, though. And they got that awful collection. May the heavens help them.” She closed her eyes and breathed in barley vapors.
In response to my wrinkled brow, Barton spoke up. “It’s a stunning collection in its own way. William Harold Crundall the First, Judith and Dalia’s grandfather, was an archeologist who collected Native American objects. Some of them . . . well . . . let’s say they’ve fallen out of favor.”
“He robbed churches and graves,” Dalia said darkly. “He stole people’s most sacred objects and even their relatives.” Clutching her crystals, she said, “We shouldn’t talk about this over breakfast. Bad for digestion. Thankfully, Barton and his assistant, wherever that dear girl is—”
“Late as usual,” he said with a sigh, glancing at his watch. “I told her nine o’clock sharp.”
Dalia, not a stickler for minutes or days, waved off the assistant’s tardiness. “She’s from Albuquerque. On New Mexican time. In any case, she and Barton will sort out all those poor, pillaged objects and send them back to their rightful owners. The spirits will smile on us and Judith will heal.”
Dalia dug into her eggs. I glanced over and saw Jake hanging his hat on a chair by the fireplace. I was curious about the Crundall half sisters and their collection, but decided I’d learn more from Flori. I made motions to go. “Enjoy your breakfasts. Dalia, when you see Judith, please tell her how thrilled Celia is,” I said. “It’s quite an honor to play the devil.”
Barton nodded seriously. “I’ll say. I’m even more honored. Ms. Crundall has me—a complete outsider—playing the first devil. I don’t know if I’m up for it, honestly. I’m no actor, and your daughter follows me in the performance. I fear she’ll show me up. I’m going to have to up my devil game.”
Addie, making the rounds with her coffeepot, refilled his cup. She giggled when he turned his smile and charm on her.
“Dalia told me the food here was lovely,” Barton said. “She failed to mention the beautiful staff.”
Flustered out of her usual faux British, Addie stuttered, “Gracias. I mean, thanks. Oh my . . .”
I decided it was time for both of us to leave. I again wished them a good meal and Barton good luck.
“I’ll need it,” he said, his smooth face looking p
erfectly unworried.
“Dishy!” Addie whispered loudly when we were a few tables away. “In all my years!”
“All your twenty-some years?” I joked.
“Every one of them,” she said. She handed me the coffeepot and a mug. “Off you go, now. Off to your dishy solicitor.”
Ever the Western gentleman, the definitely dishy Jake Strong rose to greet me. “Don’t suppose you have time to rest your feet,” he said with a smile. Jake’s taller than me by several inches and older by a little over a year. He’d never be called pretty. Ruggedly handsome describes Jake, with appealing soft edges. He bent down and landed a discreet kiss on my cheek.
I scanned the room, taking in half-filled water glasses, empty plates, and bills to collect.
“I didn’t think so,” he said, reading my thoughts. “A man has to hope.” He sat back down and stretched out long legs, clad in dark jeans and polished black cowboy boots.
“It’s so busy lately,” I said, feeling guilty for more than turning down his breakfast offer. “We’re overrun for a Monday morning. I suppose it’s all the holiday visitors already in town.”
Jake sipped his coffee and perused the menu that he surely had memorized. Steak and eggs or chiles rellenos were his usual choices. He patted his flat belly. “Wish I was busy. I’m not saying we need some crime around here, but my schedule’s so open, my secretary has me stringing popcorn wreaths. Gifts for the sparrows, she says.” He groaned. “We’re supposed to start making suet bells out of peanut butter and beef fat if I don’t get work soon.”
I couldn’t hide my grin, imagining Jake’s sleek office, a repurposed adobe home down the block, besieged by birds. Jake’s clientele was usually more serious and well funded. He specialized in criminal defense and was renowned for getting his clients off the hook. Even the guilty ones, my policeman ex grumbled. Jake would say he provided the right to due process, and I agreed. I’d seen him help innocent people, including some of my friends.