Feliz Navidead

by Ann Myers

  Luckily, one problem solved itself. Becky’s desk was empty of popcorn, suet balls, and Becky herself. The light in the front room was off, and for a moment, I thought Jake must have left and forgotten to lock up. Then I heard a woof and paws thundering up the hallway. Winston skidded to a stop in front of my feet, flopped on his side, and invited me to rub his belly. Jake sauntered up the hall.

  “Quite the guard dog you have here,” I said.

  “He likes you,” he said, giving me a kiss to show that he liked me too. Would he after I delivered my news?

  “I have pie,” I said, holding out the plate. “And spray cream.”

  “Uh oh,” Jake said, eyes narrowing. “What’s going on?”

  We settled into his office and I told him about the short, slender, Spanish-speaking Santa. He ate pie while I talked.

  “Good thing you brought this pie,” he said, finally. “I’d feel like a mighty sorry fool otherwise. When those ladies said they saw Santa, I just assumed it was Wyatt. They told the police the same story. No one asked them to pick St. Nick out of a lineup. Who knew there was a pack of ’em running around that hotel?” He managed a smile. “My only consolation is that the police believed them first. And I have pie.”

  “Want more whipped cream?” I said.

  He declined. Winston aimed his toothy underbite at me, panting to indicate that he’d take me up on the offer.

  “I don’t like this development either,” I said, “But it’s not necessarily bad news for Wyatt. He still has the housekeeper alibi, right?”

  Jake was already dialing the housekeeper’s number. He offered me a bite of pie while we waited for her to answer.

  “Dolores?” he asked, before switching to Spanish. I took a small forkful of pie and vowed once again to work on my Spanish. Maybe Addie would tutor me if I helped her make black bun and English puddings. I drew the line at haggis. No steamed innards for any occasion.

  Jake held out the phone, covering the mouthpiece. “She’s at Ojo Caliente, enjoying a hot-spring spa vacation compliments of Wyatt Cortez.” He twisted his mouth in an upset expression. “Care to ask her anything?”

  “In Spanish?” I whispered.

  “English is fine.” He handed me the phone.

  I pictured the resort, an oasis set against a backdrop of pale, sculpted cliffs. The mineral springs had long been known for their restorative power. I could sure use that. Funny how no one ever gifted me a spa vacation after upsetting experiences, like finding bodies or receiving death threats.

  Dolores greeted me in a serene voice. I explained that I was “checking up on things” for Mr. Cortez.

  “What a nice man, Mr. Cortez. He gave me this gift to calm my nerves. He is very nice. Very kind.”

  Yeah, really kind. Or buttering up his alibi, if she truly was his alibi. I let Dolores gush about hot herbal-scented towels and lavender salt scrubs. “Later, I’ll soak in my private outdoor bath,” she said. “So relaxing. The bad memories are washing away. Except for seeing poor distressed and completely innocent Mr. Cortez, of course.”

  Of course. Before all her other memories went down the drain, I asked her about the night in question. “Can you tell me who you saw go onto the roof of the Pajarito and in what order?”

  Dolores sorted her thoughts in mumbles. Then, firmly, she said. “Claro. First, there was the devil. The actor. I watched him, wishing I had the night off. But I was already behind with my cleaning, so I go down the hall to the supply room. I am about to enter, when I hear a sound. There is a strange old woman. She looks at me. She points and says the devil will get me. She frightens me terribly. I go into the storage room. I am taking my time there, disturbed by the woman, when I hear a horrible scream. Terrible. A death scream, if I have ever heard one, which before that moment I had not. I am ashamed to say that I continue to hide. I thought, truly, it was el diablo.”

  “And then?” I asked.

  “I hear footsteps, running, and the door to the stairway slamming. A few minutes later, I hear the elevator open—the dinging noise—and Mr. Cortez’s voice, like he is talking on his phone. I am relieved and dare open the door a little and look out. Mr. Cortez is dressed as Santa, very jolly. I almost call to him, but then I worry that he will find me not working, so I stay hidden. He is very kind to forgive me. Mrs. Cortez gave me pies, and Mr. Cortez gave me this time off at Ojo Caliente. I am glad that I can help them.”

  She was helping, all right. I couldn’t get her to budge on her story. “Such a saint,” she said with the Zen-like calm of the recently massaged and mineral soaked. “Mr. Cortez should come here and relax.”

  After I hung up, Jake nibbled pie crust and shared some with Winston. “Before you got on the line, I asked her to describe Santa,” he said. “She’s sure that one was Wyatt.”

  I snagged a bit of crust for myself. “But what if he talked her into providing an alibi? A spa vacation? Perks at work?”

  Jake acknowledged that the spa looked bad. “I tell my clients all the time. No bribery until the case is closed.” He waved a fork at me. “Pie bribery, on the other hand, that’s okay.”

  Not for me, it wasn’t. Was Flori right? Had I been tricked into helping a killer?

  Chapter 22

  On my way home, I stopped at Judith Crundall’s again to check on Celia and her sudden and suspicious interest in babysitting. I spotted Sky first. He crouched behind a stone fountain. Eddie, hands plastered over his eyes, spun in a circle. The little boy wobbled to a stop, opened his eyes, and spotted the barely hidden Sky, who took off in mock terror.

  I would have enjoyed the sweet scene a lot more if I knew what my daughter was up to. I peeked in the archives room, where Shasta was frowning at piles of papers. Mounds of pink packing-foam peanuts drifted at her feet.

  “Hi,” she said distractedly. When I asked about Celia, she waved in the vague direction of a solid plaster wall or the door outside. “I think the girls went off that way. With the big guy.”

  I hoped the big guy was Gary and that he was paying attention. “Discover any more thefts?” I asked brightly.

  Shasta exhaled deeply. “Ugh . . . this job! Listen, I’m sorry I was upset earlier. That doll was supercreepy.” She looked up and managed a smile. “I kind of wigged out on my boss, didn’t I?”

  “Totally reasonable to get upset,” I said. “But Barton seems like an understanding guy.”

  She shrugged and twisted her lip. I guessed what she was thinking. The handsome consultant exuded charm, except as a boss. I thought again how lucky I was to work with Flori.

  Shasta kicked up a wave of packing peanuts and announced that she was going to the storage room. “Hope I don’t find something else gross,” she said.

  Good luck with that. I wondered about the skull of the young woman, languishing in a box. Had she been stolen? Stolen again?

  I went back outside, where Sky was leading Eddie in a slow-speed chase. When he turned my way, I asked where Celia was.

  “Bathroom!” Sky declared, skidding to a stop. Eddie careened into him, giggling. “Oh no, you got me, Eddie. Your turn to hide. Ms. Lafitte and I will count to ten.”

  “Close your eyes!” Eddie demanded when I didn’t immediately obey. “Look away. Please!”

  Sky began counting slowly and in half and quarter increments. “No going past the garden!” he called out in between five and a half and five and three quarters. At this rate, he’d never get to ten.

  I opened my right eye a crack. Beside me, Sky was dutifully facing away from Eddie. However, his eyes were wide open and he was texting. I tried to see what he was writing without moving my head. I spotted the words Your mom!! and Bathroom. Fast!

  He hit Send and a frowny face emoticon popped on the screen, along with some blob of what looked like gold coins. Celia and Sky could send each other entire emoticon messages, full sentences and paragraphs composed of electronic cartoon characters.

  He stuffed the phone back into his pocket. I closed my eyes and pretended to
be waiting out the count and Eddie, whose giggles suggested a nearby hiding spot.

  “Ten!” Sky announced abruptly, jumping from eight and three quarters.

  I opened my eyes to see Celia and Emilie strolling down the flagstone path, books in hand. Both smiled sweetly. Gary, panting, brought up the rear. He saw me and chuffed ahead.

  “I didn’t lose them,” he said, so defensively that I suspected he had.

  Celia and Emilie exchanged a pleased look.

  “What have you been doing?” I asked, knowing I wouldn’t get the truth.

  “Reading,” Emilie said, holding up a vintage Nancy Drew.

  Celia held another volume. “Nancy Drew kicks—”

  I held up a cautionary finger.

  “Kicks butt,” Celia said, causing boyish snickers to erupt from a nearby sagebrush. Celia and Sky launched an elaborate fake hunt for Eddie. After a few minutes, he could contain himself no longer and sprang from his not-so-hidden spot.

  “Let’s go inside and warm up,” I said, feeling sorry for Gary with his red ears and uncovered bald head.

  The kids and Gary bounded ahead. I kept to the middle, with Sky and Celia trailing behind.

  “Jackpot,” I overheard Celia say. The sound of hands slapping followed. I imagined a celebratory high-five.

  At least I knew what the gold coin cartoon image meant. Once inside, Sky and Celia announced they were going to the kitchen to get juice for the kids. I considered following them, but instinct told me that would only put Celia on guard. I decided to start with the weak link. Gary.

  He’d plunked down on a long leather sofa against the far wall of the spacious workroom. Two cushions to his left, Emilie sat and opened her Nancy Drew. Eddie took up a place directly beside Gary and began regaling him with the details of his model train set and what engines and cars he asked for—and expected—since he’d been “really, really, extra-good.”

  “Trains sound fun, Eddie,” I said, standing over the duo.

  Gary grunted affirmatively. “I didn’t lose her,” he said again.

  I beamed at him. “Great job! Super. Time to debrief, then. Where did you go?”

  Gary shot a look at Emilie, who scowled and made a subtle, but surprisingly threatening, lip-zipping motion.

  “Oh, all over,” Gary said quickly.

  Two could be threatening. “Gary, I’m Celia’s mother. I need to know exactly where she went. It’s a matter of safety. As her bodyguard, you’re obliged to tell me. It’s part of your code, right?”

  Gary mouthed the word code. “Yeah,” he said, scratching his bald noggin. “Yeah, okay. The girls played Nancy Drew and the mystery of the hidden something or other.”

  “The Hidden Window Mystery,” Emilie corrected, jabbing at her book’s cover. “We were playing a made-up mystery in the storage room and outside in the yard.”

  And I didn’t believe her one bit. Still, I couldn’t very well accuse Dalia’s granddaughter of fibbing, especially since Celia probably had a key role in it. I told Emilie that the game sounded exciting. “So you looked in some of the storage boxes?”

  She and Gary nodded.

  “Did you go anywhere else?” I asked.

  Her smug look suggested they had. I narrowed my eyes at Gary.

  He shrugged beefy shoulders. “We ended up in the caretaker’s garage. The girls went inside. I kept watch of ’em real close.”

  “The blue angel under the daggers holds the key,” Emilie said cryptically. She smiled slyly, hands primly folded over the book. On the cover, Nancy, wearing a red bathrobe, shined a flashlight on a peacock.

  What would Nancy Drew do? She’d follow the clue. “Stay here,” I instructed Gary. “Watch the kids, and especially those teenagers when they return.”

  He gave me a three-fingered salute, Girl Scout style.

  Shasta, rooting through boxes, didn’t look up when I slipped out the door again. I cut through a dry garden of spiny cactus and agave to a small adobe structure with a slanted tin roof. The windows and doors were cottage-style glass, and all were locked. Cupping my hands to the glass, I peered inside. Shovels, pots, and lots of boxes and ski equipment filled the space. What had Emilie said about a key?

  I scanned the area around the shed. Francisco’s casita was several yards away, looking cold and deserted. The garden he’d cared for was designed for any season. Ornamental grasses, some spiky and upright, others softly waving, painted the garden in swaths of yellow to gold. Evergreen cactus and junipers added color, as did scarlet rose hips the size of kumquats. Other than a few boulders, there was little ornamentation. With one exception. A small cement angel stood under a thorn-tipped agave surrounded by blue glass marbles. Aha! The blue angel under the daggers . . .

  I lifted the statue and found a key box taped to her underside. The key fit the garage doors, which swung open on their own once unlocked. The air inside smelled musty and earthy, and I wondered if the kids had exaggerated the intrigue. From the looks of it, Francisco and Trey had shared the space for their respective gardening and ski bum supplies. Boxes of snowboard wax stood among bags of potting soil and fertilizer.

  I was about to write the garage off when I noticed a feather under a low, curtain-covered cabinet. The feather wasn’t the type to poke free from a down jacket. This feather originated from a big bird, and it wasn’t alone. Lifting back the curtain, I discovered a gorgeous headdress decorated in more feathers and myriad minuscule beads. Crowded beside it were various kachina dolls, a wooden cross, and a dark, velvety cloth. Were these some of the missing objects? I reached for the velvet and lifted a corner before recoiling in horror. The empty eye sockets of a partial skull stared back at me.

  My yelp was stopped short by a sound outside. A man’s voice, talking loudly, almost yelling. My stomach pitched as I peeked out the dusty window and confirmed what my ears already knew. Trey Crundall was outside and coming this way.

  I shoved the skull and its velvet back into the cabinet and frantically looked for a way out. There was no back door that I could see. The front doors hung open, only a few inches, but enough that Trey might notice. Crouching in the shadows, I tugged the doors shut, praying a gust of wind didn’t blow them open again. Perhaps Trey wouldn’t come in. Or if he did, he might think that he’d forgotten to lock them. Right. He wouldn’t think that if he found me, huddled in a corner.

  I needed a better hiding spot. No way was I crawling into a cobwebby cupboard with bones, especially if Trey was coming to inspect his stash. Snowboards and skis were propped up in the far back corners. Hoping spiders and other creepy-crawlies went dormant for the winter, I slid behind a row of tall snowboards and held my breath.

  “What the—” Trey interrupted his own loud phone conversation to curse at the open door. “And they blame me for troubles around this dump,” he grumbled as the doors creaked open. “My storeroom door is open. Man, if I got robbed, I’m going to be ticked.” He drew out the last word. I cringed at the sound of him stomping in and banging boxes.

  “Yeah,” he said, to the sound of boxes tumbling to the floor. “Yeah. Dude, there’s eighteen inches of fresh powder up at Breck. We should go.”

  If he was the bone and headdress thief, he sure had other priorities. Fluffy new snow in Breckenridge, Colorado? Sounded nice, and an unlikely place to unload skulls. His voice and footsteps approached my hiding spot. One of the snowboards moved, enough to make my heart pound and give me a sliver of a view. Trey was decked out head to toe in sports gear, from a bulky UNM football hoodie and Denver Broncos hat to ski pants with a horrifyingly large spider logo on the side. Yuck! My skin crawled, and I had to stop myself from swatting at imagined arachnids.

  “Yeah, man,” Trey said, still too loud. “Aspen would totally rock. Awesome. I’ll bring my Never Summer Proto. It shreds.”

  I assumed he was talking snowboards. I prayed he wasn’t talking about a board I was hiding behind. As a backup, I tried to come up with plausible excuses for lurking in his garage. Absurdities cam
e to mind. Looking for a lost pet? Hiding from the holidays? Meditating on the meaning of life, spurred on by his hippie auntie Dalia? Going the distance with hide-and-seek? Hide-and-seek seemed like my best chance. Or I could tip the boards onto him and run. If I was lucky, I’d make it to the house and the questionable protections of Gary. However, all Trey would have to do was question the little kids or Gary and I’d be found out.

  I decided to count to ten before making any rash moves. Like Sky, I dawdled on fractional numbers. I’d hit nine and three-quarters when I heard Emilie yell, “Marco!”

  “Polo!” Eddie yelled back. Light, bouncy footsteps entered the garage.

  “Yo, little dude,” Trey said enthusiastically. Presumably to his phone companion, he said, “Bro, I’ve got kid company. . . . Yeah, it’s my kickin’ nephew-cousin, whatever he is. Call you later.”

  Eddie chatted happily about the game he and Emilie were playing with their best-ever babysitters. “Trey, come outside,” he begged. “Come play.”

  “Okay,” Trey said agreeably. I heard their voices getting softer in the distance, alternatively calling Marco and Polo.

  I let out my breath and was about to risk sneaking out when the doors creaked again. My heartbeat bounced into panic mode. Perhaps the bone thief wasn’t Trey, but the burglar. Maybe he’d been hiding here. I’d be stuck all night. Or worse.

  “Come out, come out wherever you are,” a familiar voice sang.

  Red-faced, I emerged from the snowboards.

  “Hi, Mom,” said my daughter, raising an eyebrow in feigned surprise. “Whatcha doing?”

  Chapter 23

  “Did you girls have a nice day?” Mom asked later that night. She passed a steaming bowl of mashed potatoes around the tiny table. She’d made the potatoes just the way I liked them as a kid, with lots of butter and sour cream and sprinkled with her secret ingredient: ranch dressing mix. She’d also roasted a chicken, seasoned with more of the ranch dressing spices, as well as asparagus dressed with butter and garlic. The little casita smelled homey and divine. Hugo thought so too.