Feliz Navidead

by Ann Myers

  “Think of us all as your biggest fans,” I said.

  Celia said suspiciously. “All of you?”

  “Jake and I will be there too,” I said, in a tone that invited no debate.

  “Whatever,” my daughter said. “If you’re going to be visible from the street, wear something red and jump around like you’re meant to be there. That could be cool. An entourage of imps.”

  “I’m an invisible mother,” Cass said, when I found her hovering in a dimly lit spot near the “hombres” restroom.

  “Then we’re a club,” I laughed. “I promised to hide in a dark corner.”

  My friend tucked a stray length of long blond hair back into a loose bun held up by a turquoise knitting needle.

  I nodded toward to the needle. “Where’d you get that?”

  Cass reported finding it by downtown art. “You know that wonderful grouping of stone fish heads on Marcy Street? The fish are suddenly wearing stocking caps and scarves. The work of someone we know, I’d guess? I found calling cards for Night Knitter and Silver Purl and thought I could negotiate some free muffins in exchange for the needle.”

  “I’m sure that could be arranged,” I said.

  We were in the “Grande Banquet Hall” of a restaurant on the Plaza. The place had changed hands recently and the new owners had gone all in for taxidermy décor. I looked over my shoulder at a moth-bitten buffalo beside us. I couldn’t imagine why anyone would think banquets and deceased buffalo went together. Or banquets and all the other unfortunate creatures hanging from the walls. I avoided the glass eyes of a bodiless antelope and a roadrunner frozen mid-stride on a sideboard.

  “Yuck,” I said.

  Cass agreed. “They’re supposed to make fabulous margaritas here, but who wants to drink them if you’re surrounded by dead wildlife? The bar area downstairs is worse, floor to ceiling stuffed fish and other aquatic beings.”

  As we made small talk about all the taxidermy we’d never decorate with, I kept my eye on Celia. She and Sky stood by a snacks table, chatting with some of the other younger cast members. Sky, taller by at least half a foot, hovered next to Celia, the perfect best friend, protector, and backup imp. I thanked Cass for her son’s diligence.

  She shifted farther from the buffalo. “Sky’s kind of shaken by that devil’s murder. He was down by the singers that night and looked up and saw you miming death,” Cass said. “He said he knew right away what you meant, so he ran to check on Celia.” She smiled. “You do manage to find . . . excitement.”

  You could call it that. Or trouble.

  “Ooo . . .” Cass said, nudging me. “Look at what someone added to the snacks table. Tamales. I bet they’re the sweet kind. I spent the whole day working on holiday necklace orders and didn’t have time to eat. I don’t suppose our kids would deny their own mothers food.”

  I was happy for the excuse to join the performers, as well as Dalia and Judith. Judith sat in her wheelchair, pale and hunched. Cass grabbed a plate and started down the food table. I snagged a Mexican wedding cookie as weighty as a snowball and went to join Judith.

  With a veined hand, she waved away my reintroductions. “Yes, yes, I remember you. I’m not that dotty yet. You’re Celia’s mother. I can see the resemblance. She’s a fine young devil. I’m proud to finally have a young lady playing that role.” Her smile cracked to a cough. When she’d recovered her composure, she said. “We girls couldn’t play such parts when I was young. Foolish convention.”

  “I’m proud of her,” I said, wondering how I could politely bring up her dead devil.

  Judith did it for me. “She’s brave too, after what happened with our first devil. A girl after my own heart. I don’t want anyone to worry, though. I’ve hired extra security. You see those big men by the buffet?”

  I had noticed the beefcakes in tight black shirts hungrily eyeing the cookie platters.

  Judith coughed again. Dalia fussed over her sister, urging her to hold a kachina. The wooden figure was clothed in hide and decorated in fur and ragged feathers. “The eagle spirit will make you stronger, Judith. Say the prayers we worked on.”

  Judith stuffed the figure into the cup holder of her wheelchair. “Honestly, Dalia, if a dozen medical specialists can’t cure me, I don’t see how old dolls will.” For good measure, she reached up and batted at the feathered dream catcher dangling like a child’s mobile above her. “I look like a fool.”

  Dalia’s Zen training was paying off. She smiled serenely and fluffed Judith’s afghan. “Now, now, what’s the harm?” she asked. “Better than those doctors irradiating you with their scanners.”

  I changed the subject back to the bodyguards and thanked Judith for providing them. “I’m the one who found Mr. Ferrara’s body,” I added. “I’m sorry. I know he worked for you.”

  Judith, who’d just given the dream catcher another firm whap, put her arm down and looked truly sad. “I do feel bad about Francisco. I volunteered him for the devil job after pretty Mr. Hunter could barely hold his head up. I thought it would be good for Francisco. The man punished himself too much. Then look what happens, some nut goes and kills him.” She shook her head slowly and let Dalia put the kachina in her hand.

  “Some nut?” I asked. “Then you don’t think the killer targeted Francisco?”

  Judith shrugged. “Wyatt Cortez is a fool. Silly man thinks that playing jolly in a Santa costume will fix his marriage. I can’t see him stabbing Francisco. You ask me, the police have the wrong man. They don’t ask old women, though, do they?”

  They didn’t ask me either, or listen to my tips. “So who do you think did it?” I asked, taking a shot.

  The hacking cough kept Judith from answering. “Not a clue. If you’d told me last week that someone in Las Posadas was going to die, I’d have bet on me.” She reached up and sent the dream catcher spinning. “And my dear son wouldn’t mind one bit.”

  Chapter 12

  I met Cass back at the buffalo. She slipped me a sheath of waxed paper, like a spy passing off illicit documents. Dalia stood at the podium, trying to dislodge the microphone to give to Judith.

  “Try this,” Cass whispered as Dalia tapped the microphone and said, “Testing, testing, namaste, greetings.”

  My mind was still on Judith. Did she think that Trey wanted to kill her? But why would he kill Francisco? I opened the wax paper triangle and thoughts of murder vanished. “Oh my gosh, piñon brittle!”

  My friend nodded. “Yep, pure gold. Misty Crowe brought it. The pine nuts are harvested from her family ranch, all by hand. Must have taken forever, and then to shell these tiny things?” She nibbled her own bit of brittle appreciatively.

  Local piñon brittle truly was a rare treat. I savored a bite, trying to detect if Misty Crowe had added anything special to the melted sugar and nut mix. A dash of smoked red chile powder, I thought, likely from her home village of Chimayo. The little village attracted thousands of pilgrims, drawn to a chapel that boasts miraculous, curative dirt. Culinary pilgrims also flocked there, seeking out the heirloom chiles.

  Having failed to get the microphone to her sister, Dalia was giving a combination pep talk/obituary. “We all mourn the loss of our fellow performer, Francisco,” she said, to light applause and a few amens. “He performed in Las Posadas over two decades ago and had returned this year to help. Let us take a moment to remember him.”

  Cass and I bowed our heads. I sneaked a peek, curious what the rest of the performers were doing. Some seemed to be praying. Others were scavenging the buffet table. Could one of them have recognized Francisco behind his devil mask? It seemed like a long shot. I recognized many of the performers. They were nice people who sang in the choir at Flori’s church and came to the café. Some were elderly, others closer to Celia’s age. Would one of them really strike down a fellow cast member? The dark side of my brain told me they might. On the other hand, why interrupt their own play? And why then and on the rooftop of the Pajarito?

  My thoughts shifted to Wyatt i
n crazed Santa mode. Maybe I was overthinking the crime. How much easier if the murder had been spontaneous, fueled by anger and jealousy and the stress of playing a jolly hotel Santa.

  Dalia called for another round of applause, this time for the Las Posadas bodyguards. “Gentlemen,” she said theatrically. “Take a bow.” The three men gave rather bashful waves. The tallest one, bald with a tattoo necklace, wiped powdered sugar from his black outfit. The shortest and pudgiest hid a cookie behind his back.

  “They’re trained in all sorts of defensive techniques,” Dalia said. Then she quickly added, “We don’t expect that these fine gentlemen will have to employ their skills. The police have a suspect, whom I won’t name but some of you surely know. That person is out on bail but being closely monitored with an ankle bracelet. During our performances, he will be under constant police surveillance. There is no need to worry.”

  She then smoothly transitioned into the planned changes to the route and the devil lineup. Barton Hunter, she said, would bravely play the first devil. Young Celia Martin would go next, newly stationed at a taproom with a second-story patio overlooking the Plaza.

  I didn’t hear about the third devil. I was too busy mentally weighing the pluses and minuses of Celia’s venue. On the positive side, I’d been in the taproom and knew it would be easy to guard the balcony entrance. Jake and I and the rest of Celia’s guardian entourage could also stay out of sight. On the other hand, the bar was often crowded and might be hard to fully monitor. Then there was Mom. First Celia was a devil. Now she was a devil performing at a beer joint.

  Cass spotted one of her jewelry clients and went to say hi. I headed for the buffet table as an excuse to check on Celia. On the way, I stopped to introduce myself to one of the guards. His name tag said “Gary” and he had powdered sugar on his chin.

  “That’s my daughter,” I said, pointing toward Celia. She was laughing as she and a cute dark-haired boy stood on tiptoes to place devil horns on Sky’s head. His imp headpiece reminded me of Sidekick’s nubby goat horns. “You and the other guys take good care of her,” I told Gary.

  He mumbled that he would and blushed.

  Geez, where had Dalia hired these guys? Bashful Security Company? I, however, wasn’t one to talk.

  A hand, firm and warm, gripped my shoulder. I smelled masculine aftershave and felt the presence of a cheek near mine. Instinctively, I leaned back, feeling the scruff of a male chin. Then, with a jolt, I realized it wasn’t the scruff I was expecting.

  “Oh my gosh, I’m so, so sorry!” I said to the smiling face of Barton Hunter. “I thought you were someone else.”

  “My bad,” he said. “Or my good luck.” His tone matched his devilish attire, trim black jeans and a black T-shirt printed with a red outline of a devil head. “I apologize. I’ll admit, I was spying over your shoulder, hoping to find more of that fabulous brittle. I’ll settle for this.” He selected a caramel-topped brownie, brushing my arm as he did.

  “Want to introduce me to your daughter?” he said. “I’m really behind compared to the other performers now and I hear Celia’s the best devil around.”

  Celia scowled when she saw me approaching. “I can’t go yet, Mom. Dalia got a voice coach from the Santa Fe Opera to come in. She’s going to help us project.”

  The woman in question was as petite as Flori. She raised her head, touched her breastbone, and, in a voice so powerful and dark it seemed to come from the depths of Hades, pronounced “Váyanse de aquí! Be gone!”

  “Awesome, right?” Celia said.

  Awesome enough to give me chills. I explained that I was just introducing Barton Hunter, fellow devil. “He’s working on Judith Crundall’s collection,” I said. “Remember? Gran and I were down there the other day?”

  Celia said, “Hey,” the teenage version of salutations.

  Sky thrust out his hand. “I know about your work,” he said, voice filled with awe. “I read about you in the paper. My father is from Tesuque Pueblo. He’s part of the ceremonial dancers, and he says you’re getting a drum back to us and costumes for the Eagle and Bear dances. Oh, I’m Sky Clearwater, in case, you know, you need to know.”

  Barton shook his hand vigorously. “Pleased to meet you, Sky. I believe I met your father when I visited Tesuque. A fine artist and exceptional community supporter. You tell him, my assistant and I are busy working through the collection and as soon as we document the items properly, we’ll be delivering them personally.”

  “When will that be?” Sky asked. “In time for the Christmas dances? We’re doing the Eagle Dance this year. I’m participating.”

  I hoped to take Mom to one of the Pueblo dances. Celia, Cass, and I had gone to a performance at Tesuque over the summer. We’d stood on the sidelines with members of Sky’s family and watched hundreds of dancers fill the dirt plaza. I’d seen dances before, but I was always entranced by the rhythmic drumming and chants, the dancers disappearing into the sacred underground kiva, and the mingling of native and Catholic spiritualties. I was equally amazed by the feast afterward, when families opened their homes to friends, relatives, and total strangers. I’d tried to imagine strangers squished onto Mom’s sofa, waiting for space to open up at a rotating table of guests. Mom would be in a panic. Heck, I would be too! On the other hand, Mom and Aunt Sue would love some of the popular feast foods, like macaroni salads and fancy Jell-O dishes.

  Barton and Sky were talking about a hide cape that Barton had sent out for cleaning. “Private collections can be a challenge,” Barton said. “Let’s just say the record keeping isn’t what it is in museum collections.”

  With Celia booming her lines in the background, I half listened as Sky described an internship he’d done at the Native American arts museum downtown. He added, with a frown, “I’ve heard things about the Crundall collection.”

  Barton shook his head, his expression wry. “It’s going to good places now.” He waved the remaining half of his brownie. “You seem like an enthusiastic young man. If you want a holiday job, you’re welcome to help.”

  Sky nodded eagerly.

  Barton continued. “There’s one caveat. We’re dealing with a lot of bones at present.”

  Sky drew back, as if the words were a rattlesnake. “No, sorry,” he said, a blush rising to his cheeks. “My dad. My people, we don’t . . . we don’t talk about or touch those things.”

  “A lot of people don’t,” Barton said kindly, soothing Sky’s clear anxiety. “It’s best that way.”

  Barton was up next for vocal practice. I drifted back to the taxidermied buffalo and Cass, who was checking her phone. “Ugh. The holidays,” she said, sounding like Manny. “I’m so behind on custom jewelry orders! What were you, Sky, and Mr. Handsome chatting about?”

  I reported that Sky had almost gotten a job. “Handling the Crundall collection bones,” I said. “He turned it down.”

  Cass shuddered. “I should hope so. His father and I were never a couple per se, but I learned a bit about Pueblo philosophies. Even speaking of the dead by name is taboo. Handling bones would be a big no-no. Sky’s a pretty modern, mixed-culture kid. Taboo or not, though, I wouldn’t want him spending his holiday messing with bones.”

  In the center of the room, the singers had assembled and were warming up with “Feliz Navidad.” Celia, Barton, and Devil Number Three flexed their jumping muscles. I hummed along, enjoying the fun Christmas moment and thinking I wouldn’t be seeing this in Bucks Grove, Illinois.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I thought I saw movement by a stuffed black bear, posed in claws-out mauling mode. The bear, like the buffalo, looked slightly mangy and wouldn’t be coming back to life. I nudged Cass. “I thought I saw something over by the bear.”

  Cass squinted. “I don’t see anything except Smokey’s stuffed mama.”

  Neither, apparently, did the security guards. Gary was gazing longingly toward the desserts, and the next nearest guy could have been napping behind his dark glasses.

  “There,” I s
aid. “Look! The witch!”

  “What?” Cass said, but I was already moving around the buffalo, gesturing for her to follow. I whispered. “From the rooftop, the night of the murder. Her name’s Josephina. Flori says she’s an old schoolmate and into cursing people. Flori didn’t know where she was living. Manny thought she was a figment of my imagination.” She was certainly no figment. She wore layers of gray tonight, a coat, shawl, and hood draped over her crooked back.

  Cass reached for her phone and pressed the video button. “He won’t think that now. What are we going to do?”

  “Stay back and watch,” I said. How embarrassing to be afraid of a little old lady. Just then the lady in question turned and looked me straight in the eye. “El diablo!” she hissed, pointing to Celia and friends. She clutched what looked like rags of tattered fabric covered with feathers.

  “Hey!” Gary finally perked up. “Ma’am? Are you in the play?”

  Josephina spun and muttered something that made Gary shrivel back. Then she scuttled from the room.

  Before I could say anything, Cass said it for me. “Follow that witch!”

  Chapter 13

  I’d never dare say so, but Josephina reminded me of Flori, if only in her ability to evade. By the time I’d caught Celia’s frowning attention with my gestures of “be right back,” pointing, and miming spy glasses, Josephina was scooting down the stairs and headed for the exit.

  “Fast little thing, isn’t she,” Cass said as we jogged down the stairs.

  “Let’s hang back,” I said, only partially out of fright.

  We smiled at the hostess stationed near the front door. “Waiting for a friend,” I said, in lieu of “Tailing a witch.”

  The hostess returned to studying her seating chart. Cass peeked out the door. “She’s going around the corner.”

  We followed, keeping several yards and strolling tourists between us and Josephina. A kid on a skateboard zoomed past us. People scattered and I momentarily lost sight of our witchy target.