Feliz Navidead

by Ann Myers

  I followed, hopscotching to flagstones to lessen the sounds of my steps. I was nearing my car when my cell phone rang at full volume. Heart racing, I fumbled through my purse. The phone made it through three loud, tinny strains of my new “Jingle Bells” ringtone. In between rings, I heard the footsteps, turned to pounding feet running away.

  I listened until I could hear them no more. Then I said, “Hello?” letting exasperation creep into my voice.

  The apologetic voice of Barton Hunter greeted me. “Rita. Ms. Lafitte. This is Barton Hunter. I’m so sorry. It’s too late to call. I apologize if I you were already asleep.”

  “No, no,” I said, trying to sound more pleasant. “You didn’t wake me.” That was for sure. I doubted I’d ever get to sleep tonight. I backtracked, got in my car, and locked the doors, just in case the prowler had hung around. “What’s up, Barton?”

  He explained that he’d gotten an earlier message from Dalia about Judith’s trip to the emergency room. “I called back but couldn’t reach her,” he said. “Is Judith okay? Dalia mentioned that you were driving her to the hospital, or I wouldn’t have bothered you.”

  Well, at least I was calming someone’s nerves over Dalia’s rampant message leaving. I told Barton that Judith was fine. “Dehydration, that’s all.”

  He breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank goodness. If you see Judith, tell her I’m thinking of her and want her back in that collections room as soon as possible.”

  I told him I’d relay the message and we hung up. The romantic candlelight was still flickering in the window when I backed out of Judith’s driveway, my headlights off. Back on the road, I saw no sign of anyone. Still, my heart raced as I hurried to my front door. Who had I seen? A prowler? The killer? I locked my door against the cold winter wind wailing down the creek valley and lay awake a long time, ears tuned to the branches scratching like witchy fingernails against the windows.

  Chapter 17

  Mom greeted me the next morning with hot coffee and an update from the sub-tropics. “I’m afraid the heat is getting to your sister,” Mom said direly. “Kathy, Dwayne, and the kids are going zip-lining over an alligator farm this afternoon. Zip-lining! Over alligators! Can you believe it?”

  I poured myself coffee before trying to work out the how and whys of zip-lining in flat Florida over toothy reptiles. Even after caffeine intake, I couldn’t imagine the logistics or the attraction. “Why?” I asked.

  “My question exactly,” Mom said. We shared a moment of shaking our heads in wonder. Mom poured herself more coffee and joined me at the table. “It sounds dangerous to me. Remember how Kathy loved swinging out over the lake on that rope when she was little? Kathy has always had a rebel streak.”

  Those words brightened my morning as much as the coffee. Kathy, the rebel? Good, dependable Kathy who shared every detail of her life with Mom and showed up routinely for family dinners? I basked in being the daughter taking her mother on a nice Sunday Christmas tree hunt. “There are all sorts of ways to celebrate Christmas,” I said generously. I couldn’t get too smug. I was, after all, still the daughter exposing Mom to devils and a dead body.

  Mom looked dubious. “There’s other bad news. A burglar.” She shoved the Santa Fe New Mexican under my nose. “I went outside to get the newspaper, little knowing how dangerous it is around here. Right here!”

  I took the paper with trepidation. “Surely not right here . . .”

  “Oh yes,” Mom said. “Your street, Rita. A few houses down, from what I can tell. You should consider moving closer to town. These wild yards and adobe walls offer criminals all sorts of places to hide undetected.”

  I had considered moving once, when two killings took place pretty much in my own backyard. A little cat burglar wasn’t going to scare me.

  “This kind of stuff happens everywhere,” I said. “Even in places without walls. We have good locks, and I bet the burglar is looking for bigger prey than our casita.”

  Mom again needlessly reminded me that I was a single mother. “I made some hard decisions based on you girls when you were young. I hope someday you’ll understand that. In fact . . .” She paused, then got up suddenly and ducked her head into the refrigerator. When she turned, empty-handed, she grabbed the coffeepot and refilled my cup. “You’re doing a lovely job with Celia, don’t get me wrong. I’m only concerned for you both.”

  “We’re fine, Mom,” I said, distracted by the article. I was actually feeling safer by the minute. A common burglar. Is that who I’d encountered last night? If so, I felt good on two counts. One, my presence had scared him off. Two, and more importantly, a run-of-the-mill burglar had nothing to do with devil threats. My fears of yesterday had been unfounded. I could relax and let Manny handle the case.

  According to the paper, a black-suited burglar was striking houses on the east side of town. Some of the affected addresses were on my street. However, the burglar favored high-end electronics. My fanciest electronic device was a new toaster oven that boasted the ability to bake entire pies and pizzas. Burglars, I assumed, weren’t the nice sorts to make pies. I pointed out the electronics angle to Mom.

  “See, it’s fine,” I said, unable to repress the smile that brought a scowl to Mom’s face.

  “How can a thief be fine, Rita?” she said. “First a murder. Now a burglar.”

  “At least we don’t have alligators,” I said. “And something smells wonderful.”

  Mom surely recognized my unsubtle change of subject. She kindly obliged. “I mixed up some spiced pumpkin bread this morning. It’s cooled enough that I can cut us some.”

  I quickly estimated the time needed to mix up, bake, and properly cool a quick bread. “You were up early, Mom. Did you sleep okay?”

  She cited the time zone difference and “some things on my mind.”

  I could guess several things that might cause Mom to lose sleep. Murder? More questions about Jake? Albert the dentist and how to fix me up with him? Our lack of fruitcakes? I was relieved when Mom abruptly turned the conversation to the baking spices she’d added to the bread.

  “I discovered cardamom from a Swedish lady at the Lutheran church,” she said. “I made braided cardamom bread last month. Your sister thought it was lovely, although your brother-in-law didn’t care for it. Dwayne said the taste was odd.”

  Kathy and I shared at least one similarity. We’d both married men with the taste buds of fussy toddlers. Manny refused all ethnic foods that didn’t have “Mexican” in their title. Tex-Mex, New-Mex, and Arizona-Mex were okay with him. Some actual Mexican foods, he wouldn’t touch. And French or Asian? No way. He also shunned most green vegetables other than chiles. My brother-in-law, Dwayne, on the other hand, considered Taco Bell too exotic. He favored noodle casseroles and comforting Midwest hot dishes.

  Mom and I chatted about baked goods until she declared it time to “get on with the day.”

  I decided that meant it was also a decent hour to call Dalia and check on Judith.

  “Be sure to warn her about the burglars,” Mom said darkly.

  Dalia answered before the second ring. “Oh, Rita, I’m so glad you called. Did you find Trey last night? We haven’t heard from him.”

  “Sorry. I went over there last night but . . . ah . . . no one answered the main door,” I said, truthfully though evasively. “I’m sure he’ll call today.” I wasn’t sure of that at all.

  Nor, from her snort, was Dalia. “We’ll be getting Judith home soon anyway,” she said. “The doctors say she’s fine. As fine as she can be. I pestered the emergency room doctor to run some more tests. He said that’s for Judith’s specialists to do. I swear, Rita, I’m about to call in every natural healer I know.”

  I thought of Cass’s friend, the healing witch, which reminded me of Josephina. Had Manny managed to track down her and Angel? I’d call Manny today, under the guise of finalizing plans for Celia’s Christmas Day schedule. Last I’d heard, Manny had volunteered to work Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. He liked the
overtime pay and avoiding holiday gatherings, which worked out great for me. I told Dalia I’d stop by later.

  My neighbor thanked me and again promised me sweets in return. We were about to hang up when I remembered the burglar. I described seeing someone in Judith’s driveway.

  “Could it have been Trey?” Dalia asked. “Since he was in middle school, Judith’s had problems with that boy sneaking in and out of the house.”

  “I’m sure it wasn’t Trey,” I said. “Be careful. Tell Judith to lock her doors. The paper says the thief is after electronics, not . . .” I struggled to find a less icky way to describe Judith’s collection.

  “Grave goods?” my usually positive-thinking neighbor said. “The sooner that awful collection is out of the house, the better. I wouldn’t care if a robber took them, except that wouldn’t help Judith’s karma or the spirits, would it? It’s bad enough that some pieces are lost or misplaced. Shasta’s been working overtime trying to work out the archival mess.”

  Shasta was working overtime, all right, but that wasn’t my concern. I had enough trouble disclosing my own love life. That, however, was about to change. When Dalia hung up, I called Jake. Time to get him and Mom together for a fun activity, no bodies or criminal defending involved.

  “This isn’t quite as manly as chopping down a towering pine with an ax,” Jake said. We trailed a few feet behind Mom and Celia, leaders of the potted Christmas tree hunt. Celia was pulling a wide red wagon, supplied by the nursery owner and claimed by Winston as his bulldog chariot. The expedition wasn’t exactly meeting my Midwest image of horse-drawn sleighs down snowy forest paths either. But I loved it. The Southwest sky was a brilliant, cloudless turquoise. The gravel paths were lined with metal roadrunner figurines, brightly colored Mexican pottery, and a few prairie dog holes. The tree offerings included potted Colorado blue spruce, dark green firs, and native piñon, as well as chubby barrel cactus and spiraling agaves.

  “You look like a woodsman,” I told Jake, patting his oilskin jacket. A bit of red and green flannel shirt poked out at the collar. Winston wore a coordinating red flannel doggy coat.

  Jake smiled. “I could wrangle that cactus into the truck for you.” He pointed to a tall cactus covered in stubby arms, raised as if cheering. “Bet it would look fine with some lights.”

  I grinned. “No thanks. I don’t want a Christmas tree that attacks.”

  With some effort, Celia pulled Winston and the wagon over a small hill. “How about that one?” She pointed toward a blue spruce with a wide bottom and incongruently spindly top. It sat to one side, separated from the perfectly shaped trees nearby.

  When Mom pointed out a more conical candidate, Celia stood up for the lopsided pine. “It has character,” she insisted.

  “Well, then that’s what we want,” I said. “Woodsman . . .”

  Jake was already pulling on leather work gloves and evicting Winston from his ride. With Celia’s laughing help, Jake hefted the tree onto the wagon and we took turns pulling it back to his beat-up Ford. “My father hauled a lot of logs in this truck,” he said. “He used to heat the ranch buildings with wood. This is a lucky little tree, safe in its pot.”

  I felt lucky too. Mom seemed to be warming to Jake. He’d patiently answered more questions than a census survey. We now knew his parents’ ages and former occupations. The schools he attended. The kinds and names of pets he’d owned since childhood. The type of pie he preferred for Christmas dinner. The answer to the last was good-old fashioned pumpkin.

  Mom had approved of pumpkin. “I’m glad to hear you don’t eat cactus like Rita said,” she’d said. I’d let the jab at cactus cookies go uncontested so that pie harmony could reign.

  “He’s quite polite for a lawyer,” Mom admitted back at the house. We were watching out the living room window as Jake and Celia positioned the tree “just right.” According to Celia, it should be visible from the sofa and far enough off the porch that birds could safely fly to it. She planned popcorn strings, orange slice ornaments, and tiny solar lights.

  “He’s very polite,” I agreed. “A nice man. Probably just as nice as Albert the dentist.”

  Mom wasn’t ready to go that far. “His profession, though, Rita. What if he becomes influenced by criminal types?” Before I could protest, she added, “I know, some of his clients must be perfectly innocent and in need of help. Your father . . .” She paused, looking out the window to the holiday scene of Jake and Celia hanging pine cone ornaments. Winston was rolling joyously on a patch of warm, rust-colored sandstone.

  “What about Dad?” I said, after Mom remained silent for a few beats.

  Finally, she said, “He was swayed, I suppose is the word, by one of his clients. It hardly matters now, does it? I’m only mentioning it because I want you to be careful, Rita. I worry about you and Celia, living in such a different place, all alone.”

  We were hardly alone or Wild West pioneers. I was more interested in the tidbit about my father. “Mom, you never told me that about Dad. What do you mean, swayed?”

  Mom waved a hand. “That was long ago, and I made the decision that you and your sister wouldn’t have to worry about your father’s mistakes.” She waved to Celia, who was gesturing for us to come outside. “Let’s go join the fun.”

  I followed, my thoughts jangling as much as the jingle bell Winston had just swiped off the tree.

  “Whew,” Jake said later, when he and I were alone on the porch. He was heading home. He probably wanted to put his feet up and relax. “Did I do okay?” he asked. “I detected a distinct frostiness in the air at first and it wasn’t the weather.”

  “Sorry for the inquisition,” I said. I was still trying to work out Mom’s words. Swayed? Had Dad done something unethical? Criminal? Mom sure wouldn’t abide that, and it might explain her frostiness toward Jake. I’d have to find a quiet time to sit down and talk with her alone. Until I knew for sure, I wouldn’t worry Jake with Mom’s lawyer bias. “You won a lot of points with my mother today. Good answer about pumpkin pie.”

  His eyes twinkled. “I thought it best not to mention my affinity for avocado cream pie.”

  “Smart man,” I said.

  He looked over his shoulder and then took me in his arms. “Since I have some points built up, how about I gamble some? Can I lure you over to my place for a nightcap? It is still the weekend. What if I promise to get you back before curfew?”

  “Promise?” I said with a grin.

  “Maybe. Maybe not.”

  That evening, it was me disregarding my promise to be home by ten.

  “It’s my casita,” I said, defiantly snuggling closer to Jake. “I can go home whenever I please.”

  “Exactly,” he replied, kissing the top of my head.

  Two wineglasses sat on the coffee table. We were lounging on a fluffy sheepskin rug, watching the embers crackle and glow in his stone fireplace. I tugged the blanket closer, reluctant to get up. Winston, lying at our feet, got up and rearranged himself with a thump.

  “Plus, it’s snowing,” I said, glancing out the window.

  “Right again,” Jake said. “Doesn’t that mean you have to stay?”

  I let myself believe that for a while. Then I sighed. “Or it means I should get going before the roads turn treacherous. If Mom’s still up, she’ll scold me for staying out too late, risking bad roads and burglars.”

  He grinned. “We’re always kids to our parents. Want me to drive you back? I don’t like the idea of you fighting off snowdrifts and robbers either.”

  Although reluctant to leave his company, I declined. I had all-wheel drive. Plus, I knew where to park to make the least noise in the driveway. Hopefully Mom would already be in bed and I’d sneak to my sofa bed.

  My cold, lonely, rib-jabbing sofa bed, I thought, shivering until the car’s heater worked up a tepid breeze. I drove slowly through the snow-coated streets, admiring the indigo blue of the night sky and the soft silence that comes with snowfall. At my address, I turned into the
driveway that should have been quiet as a mouse. Except it wasn’t, and I had no chance of sneaking in undetected.

  Mom and Manny stood under the glare of Manny’s headlights and the porch light. Our little Christmas tree blinked weakly, its multicolored solar lights cloaked in glowing snow.

  “Rita!” Mom said when I got out, trepidation growing. “Where have you been? Do you know it’s nearly eleven? I tried to call.”

  Uh oh. I’d muted my phone’s volume at dinner and forgotten to turn it up again. “Mom,” I said, forcing my tone to remain calm. “Please tell me what’s going on.”

  Manny stepped forward and drew me aside, over to the blinking tree. “What have you been up to?” he asked.

  “Me? I went out after dinner to see Jake. So I’m a bit late getting home. It doesn’t require the police.”

  My ex was staring out into the darkness. “I’m not here because of your love life, Rita,” he said, his voice hard. “I’m here because some creep threatened our daughter. When I find him, he’s going to wish he’s the one who’s dead.”

  Chapter 18

  I stared at the note, typed in the kind of faux-handwritten cursive used for wedding invitations. The floweriness of the letters somehow made it creepier. So did the primitive line drawing of a devil stabbed by a pitchfork. Snowflakes fluttered onto the plastic evidence bag containing the note. I let them pile up and obscure the vile message.

  “Notice how it’s addressed to you,” Manny said.

  I had noticed that, along with the threat to Celia’s life if I didn’t stop investigating.

  “But I’m not investigating,” I protested, garnering a skeptical “Right” from my ex. “Okay,” I clarified. “I was before, but not now, after nothing happened at Las Posadas yesterday. I spent the day with Mom and Celia. We got a tree.” I gestured toward the dimly lit spruce in case Manny hadn’t noticed that festive touch.