by Ann Myers
I felt my phone buzz in my pocket. I stepped away to answer.
“Where are you?” I asked Jake, forgetting a polite greeting and barely holding down the stress in my voice.
He apologized over a background din of what sounded like a heavy metal version of “Jingle Bell Rock.”
“I’m out at Ida Green’s bail bonds place with a client’s mother. The mother only speaks Spanish.” He raised his own voice, “Which Ida says she can’t understand, though I know she does.” Lowering the volume, he grumbled, “Ida’s a Grinch. I feel awful being late, Rita. It’s a charity case of sorts, my secretary’s second cousin, a good guy. We’re almost done. I promise I’ll get there as soon as possible.”
I told him not to worry. I had, after all, been married to a cop. As a policeman’s spouse, you expected work to intrude on birthdays, holidays, weekends, dinner, and the middle of the night. The worst part was the worrying, but Jake wouldn’t be in danger, unless he ate at the diner attached to Ida’s bonds place. Ida served up truly criminal cuisine.
“I understand,” I said. “So will Mom,” I lied.
“See? I told you,” Mom said with decidedly un-Christmas-like smugness. “You need a man who will be on time, Rita. Someone who’s punctual. If not for you, then for Celia. Teenagers need structure.”
I feared she was going to launch into the prompt dental appointments she’d received from Albert Ridgeland. Luckily, a wheezing honk echoed up San Francisco Street.
“Ooo . . .” Flori said, taking hold of my elbow. “I heard that. Let’s move down by the Inn of the Pajarito. That’s where the first devil appears.”
Part of me wanted to claim the best spot in front of Celia’s venue, a second-story restaurant with a balcony facing the Plaza. However, it might be good for Mom to ease into the devil concept. We walked down the street and found a location with views of both Satan’s balcony and the procession’s arrival. Mr. Peppers honked in the distance, and the crowd tittered and giggled. A few minutes later, the procession turned the corner. The giggles stopped as all eyes fixed on Mary and Joseph. Mary, wrapped in a sky-blue shawl, held her padded belly. Joseph trod as if weary. Behind them walked the three Wise Men and musicians strumming guitars and singing the traditional Las Posadas ballad. I wished my rudimentary Spanish would allow me to translate for Mom. When I glanced over, though, I saw she was transfixed. No translation needed.
“How beautiful,” she said as the procession neared. She must have been impressed because she forgot about hydration, unpunctual lawyers, and the fire risk of the candles carried by the singers and some spectators.
It was beautiful. If I squinted and blurred out the cell phones, streetlamps, and video cameras, I could imagine we’d stepped back centuries, to Santa Fe’s early colonial days. Or even farther to distant Holy Lands where moonlight also cast shadows across adobe buildings. The procession moved slowly by. A violin player in a colorful serape was one of the last performers, along with a woman in all black, except for her brilliant red hair. Beside her trotted Sidekick the goat, decked out in a Christmas sweater and a candy cane-striped harness.
We waved at Sidekick and waited for the true tail end, Dalia and Mr. Peppers. Dalia could have passed for a Holy Lands peasant in her layers of long skirts and shawls. She was walking backward, or at least trying to. She gripped the donkey’s lead with both hands and tugged. Mr. Peppers leaned the opposite direction, his butt almost in sitting position. When Dalia saw us, she threw up one hand in frustration. Mr. Peppers stopped tugging too, and the release of tension nearly sent Dalia toppling.
“I don’t understand,” Dalia said, looking truly perplexed. “Mr. Peppers and I had a long talk before we set out. A good talk.”
The donkey raised his velvety lips and grinned.
“You’re supposed to be carrying the Holy Mother,” Dalia said, addressing the truculent donkey. To us, she said, with evident exasperation. “Judith put me in charge, and I said I could handle it, but Mr. Peppers is not cooperating. He turned in circles so that Mary couldn’t get on his back. Then he got distracted by popcorn on the sidewalk. Then a Chihuahua spooked him. Then he stole a man’s Broncos hat right off his head and chewed on it . . .” She sighed. “Someone needs an attitude adjustment, Mr. Peppers.”
Flori chuckled. She ruffled the donkey’s fuzzy head and bristle-broom mane. “You’ll be a good boy and walk now, won’t you?” Rather ambiguously, the donkey blew a raspberry, yet bobbed his head up and down with vigor.
Dalia, usually composed by her spiritual signs and Zen meditations, tilted her head toward the singing and let out another exasperated sigh. “Now what’s wrong? Why are they starting that song over again? It’s time for the first devil. He heckles. The singers and crowd respond. It’s simple!”
She re-gripped the lead. Mr. Peppers threw back one ear, ready to resist.
Dalia turned to me. “I can’t leave him. Rita, will you—”
If she was going to ask me to hold Mr. Peppers, I’d have to turn her down. I had a second devil to see. Her request was abruptly cut off as Mr. Peppers whipped his head around and snorted. Across the street, some kids waved and called “Burro, burro! Come get fry bread!” Mr. Peppers flared his nostrils, lowered his head, and took off at a trot.
“No, not fry bread! He’s on a diet. Put that away!” Dalia cried. “Rita,” she yelled back as the donkey dragged her across the street. “Will you go tell Satan he’s missed his cue? He should be on the roof, by Pie in the Sky.” Her “Thank you!” was drowned out by an excited hee-haw as Mr. Peppers zeroed in on the fried temptation.
A quick cue to the devil, I could do. Sending Mom and Flori off to follow the singers, I jogged toward the hotel. Was it that hard to get dependable devils, I wondered as I squeezed through the crowd. A man dressed in a too-tight elf costume greeted me halfheartedly at the door. A yawning elf manned the front desk. Otherwise, no one else was around, not even the questionably jolly St. Nick. The elevator light indicated that the poky lift was already on the third floor. Figuring the stairs would be faster, I bounded up the steep first flight. By the second, I’d slowed, blaming Mom’s nemesis, altitude.
Outside on the roof, the wind was stronger and colder than at street level. “Hello?” I called out. “Satan?” That seemed silly. I wished I knew Satan’s name. Or maybe I did. Wasn’t handsome Barton Hunter going first? I called his name. “Barton? Mr. Hunter? Anyone here?”
Silence greeted my salutations. I stood for a minute, getting my bearings. Pie in the Sky was dark. So was the rest of the roof, except for a few dim safety lights marking the edge of the low adobe wall serving as a railing. I walked over and peeked at the crowd below. A group of women spotted me, raised their fists, and booed. I ducked and backed away, fumbling to turn on the tiny flashlight on my key chain. Where was Satan? Had Barton forgotten? Was he napping on the job?
I tried again. “Yoo-hoo, Devil? Satan?”
The only answer was a low howl of wind passing through chimney pipes. I wished I’d worn something warmer than my forest-green wool coat, which looked nice but wasn’t made for standing around on frigid rooftops. Holding my scarf close to my neck, I headed toward Pie in the Sky. The wind carried a strange scent. It wasn’t sweet piñon smoke or the lingering goodness of buttery pie crusts. No, this scent was more elemental. It reminded me of a hot-spring spa my friend Cass and I visited in the fall, where the water was slippery with sulfur. There, the scent signaled relaxing indulgence. This smell was more reminiscent of rotten eggs. Or, I thought with a shiver, the devil.
For goodness sake, I chided myself. I’d taken on murderers and single motherhood. I wasn’t scared of some rotten eggs! I swung the thin flashlight beam and my head from side to side. No devil. I was about to turn back and hurry to Celia’s venue when my light swept over a lump by an exhaust fan. I approached, my heart thumping harder with each step. The lump had horns.
“Barton? Is that you? Hey, you missed your cue.” The figure leaned against the wall, his legs spla
yed out straight in front of him. A dark cloak partially covered his red suit. Scarlet horns curved out from a black Stetson that had fallen over his forehead. Tentatively, I reached down and pushed aside the hat. A waxy face stared back at me with unblinking eyes ringed in black makeup. He wasn’t Barton, but whoever he was, he was gone. I stared at his unmoving chest and dark stains in the pattern of a devil’s pitchfork spreading across his chest.
Stumbling upright, I thought absurdly of Dalia. She was in charge. She’d know what to do. She could at least move the procession on to the next hotel. The show would go on and with it, the happy crowd. Down below, the laughing kids and merry adults wouldn’t have to know about the horrifying scene above.
I raced to the wall, ducking low so I wouldn’t be mistaken for Satan again. Strains of “Silent Night” in Spanish reached me. Noche de paz, noche de amor. The singers and spectators held candles and swayed. I spotted Flori in her puffy snowsuit, flanked by Mom and my best friend, Cass. Dalia had wrangled Mr. Peppers into position by Mary and Sidekick. The chubby goat chewed on what looked like a stocking while his redheaded handler checked her phone. The donkey was messing with Mary’s robes, picking them up with his teeth to reveal pink sweatpants with the word juicy scrolled across her bottom.
Dalia’s eyes were fixed on the roof. I waved to her, and she responded in the upraised-palm gesture of drivers cut off in traffic. I knew enough not to yell murder into a crowd. Instead, I went for miming. I pantomimed a stabbing knife, chest clutching, and collapse. Two stories below, Dalia tilted her head and raised her palm higher. I pointed toward Flori. She’d get it. Dalia was tapping Flori’s shoulder just as a tall figure in a cowboy hat stepped up beside them. Jake and Flori looked up simultaneously as I renewed my miming efforts. Anyone else might have thought I was playing the part of a possessed crazy woman. Flori understood. She reached into her knitting bag, where she kept not only really big needles but also her pepper spray. Jake began pushing through the crowd, heading my way.
I relaxed slightly. Soon my knight in a shining belt buckle would be here. So would the police. I felt a bit foolish for not calling them first. Perhaps Mom was right about high altitudes and poor judgment. I dug my phone from my purse, called 911, and explained to the monotone female voice on the other end that I’d found a dead devil.
“The Christmas Satan, you said, ma’am?” the operator asked, sounding rather bored.
I reworded. “One of the actors in Las Posadas. He’s . . . well, I think he’s been stabbed . . .”
“Yes, ma’am, stay where you are,” the voice on the other end said. “Do not, under any circumstances, approach Satan, ma’am.”
I suppressed an inappropriate stress giggle. “Okay,” I said, cringing at the mirth bubbling in my throat. “No Satan approaching. I’ll stay right here.”
The operator broke off to summon help. When she came back on she said, “Ma’am, do you see anyone else in the vicinity?”
Here was another concern I should have thought of earlier. The killer might still be here. I spun from the view of the festive crowd and squinted into the darkness. “No,” I said, “I’m all alone—”
Except I wasn’t. My voice caught, coming out as a wheeze worthy of Mr. Peppers.
The operator took the sound as a sneeze. “Bless you,” she said, and proceeded to inform me that the police would be slightly delayed.
“It’s ’cause of Las Posadas,” she explained. “Big crowds downtown, and there’s a report of some livestock causing a disturbance in front of the Inn of the Pajarito, right where you are.”
My head spun, but not from vertigo or altitude sickness. A figure had appeared, backlit against the French doors leading into the hotel. The silhouette had a round belly, a stocking cap, and a fluffy beard.
“Santa?” I managed in a squeaky voice.
“What?” the operator demanded. “Did you say Santa? I thought you said ‘Satan’ earlier. Which is it, ma’am? Satan or Santa? The responding officers need to know.”
I wasn’t sure. A white-bearded Old St. Nick lurched toward me, brandishing a devil’s pitchfork.
Chapter 4
Santa staggered left, right, and forward, steadying himself in between jerky steps with his pitchfork. In other circumstances, I might have called his cheeks rosy, his eyes twinkling. Now I interpreted flares of madness and a glint of mania. Not for the first time, I wished I’d paid more attention at a self-defense workshop Cass and I had attended a while back. I also wished Flori was here with her pepper spray, knitting needles, and martial-arts moves.
All I had was my phone, poor throwing skills, and a good set of screaming lungs.
I held off on a combined action of bellowing while tossing my phone. The phone would likely go way wide, and anyway, I had help on the way. “My lawyer’s coming!” I yelled. Realizing this wasn’t such a great threat, I amended it to “The police are on the phone!” I prayed that I hadn’t inadvertently hung up. I held the phone out at arm’s length, like a cross to ward off vampires.
Santa stopped, tugged down his beard, and pushed back his stocking cap. With the fake fluff partially removed, I recognized Wyatt Cortez, owner of the Pajarito and husband of pie maker Lorena.
“Mr. Cortez, it’s me, Rita Lafitte,” I said, struggling to keep my voice calm. “From Tres Amigas Café? Remember? You like our green chile stew. How about we go get some? You’ll have to put down that pitchfork first. The police will be here, and I wouldn’t want anyone to get hurt.”
He blinked as if he’d only just now recognized me. “Oh, Rita,” he said, shaking his head sorrowfully. He dropped the pitchfork. “This isn’t mine.”
“Whose is it?” I asked, taking a step back.
Wyatt pointed in the general direction of the dead devil. “His! It’s all his fault! This was supposed to be the merriest of Christmases. I did everything. I decorated. I wore this beard and hired extra elves. I did it all for Lorena and now . . . now . . .” His words trailed off. “It’s all ruined.”
Was he confessing? If he was, I hoped the 911 operator was recording it all. I took my eyes off Wyatt long enough to reawaken my phone. He stumbled a few steps backward and slumped against a wall, sinking to a sitting position that eerily resembled that of the nearby corpse. If he was the killer, he’d lost his murderous steam. Best yet, I heard footsteps. That would be Jake or the police. I’d even welcome the sight of my ex, Manny.
Instead, however, spotlights lit up the roof and an elderly woman dressed in a black shawl stepped into the glare. A vortex of wrinkles pinched her face inward, making her resemble an angry apple doll. A hump in her back bent her to Flori’s height. She scowled straight at me before flipping another switch. Lights shined over the far side of the rooftop and Pie in the Sky. Wyatt shielded his eyes. I squinted, and by the time I refocused, the woman had scuttled over to Satan’s body.
“Ma’am, no, come away from there! You don’t want to see that,” I said, hurrying toward her.
The woman emitted what could only be described as a cackle and made a sign of the cross. Her words came out as a hiss, carried into the night by a frigid blast of wind. “El diablo.”
Goose bumps crawled up my arms and across my scalp. When a hand touched my shoulder, I nearly leapt out of my boots. Jake pulled me to him and I allowed myself a moment of comfort. I buried my face as he held my head close.
“Are you okay?” he asked. “You scared me,” he said, pausing a beat before adding, “again.”
Yes, again. I had a bad tendency of encountering corpses, something else I’ve failed to fully reveal to Mom. I groaned. I might have made the discovery, but I was not getting involved.
Jake took me by the arm and drew me away. “Come on, you’re shaking,” he said.
“There’s an elderly lady. We should get her away from the body.” Yet when I looked back, she’d vanished. If she hadn’t turned on the lights, I might have worried I imagined her.
Jake guided me to the far wall where I’d acted out death.
I peeked over. The musicians had moved up the block and most of the crowd with them. I heard refrains of the singers requesting shelter, followed by heckling, boos, and cheers, and a bellowing hee-haw.
“That must be Celia,” I said wistfully. I should be watching my daughter in her premier performance. I felt bad for all sorts of reasons, most of all for the poor dead devil, whoever he was. It didn’t help that the first police responder was none other than my ex.
Manny’s face was flushed and his chest heaved. Unlike me, he’d never outright pant. He siphoned air through partially open lips before barking at some uniformed cops to “secure the scene.” “And make sure no one else gets up here!” he ordered before narrowing his eyes at me.
“Want me to stay with you?” Jake asked.
I did and I didn’t. I loved having Jake at my side. On the other hand, Manny turned even more macho-blustery and petulant when Jake was around.
“No, I’m okay,” I said. “You should probably go check on Mr. Cortez. I mean Santa over there. He might need a lawyer.”
“I’d say so.” Jake straightened his jacket and scarf.
Santa would need more than a spiffing up. Under the spotlight, I saw that his beard and cuffs were stained with red.
If I were the betting type, I could have made money predicting Manny’s opening line.
“Really, Rita? Another body? At Christmas?” my ex said sourly.
Yep. I’d guessed it. A snarkier, pettier me might have feigned a yawn. Manny had used this line before, only with different seasonal and situational references. I let him continue. Might as well get out his grumbles now.
“Good thing I was nearby,” he said. “I was over on the Plaza, waiting to see our daughter perform.”
I folded my arms, indicating I was going to give Manny the silent treatment until he behaved like an adult policeman.
“Fine,” he said, after a minute of silence. “Why were you up here in the first place?”