by Ann Myers
The cat sat by my feet, alternating his unblinking stare between the carved bird and Celia, who was covertly dropping him scraps. Since Celia knew my secret, I couldn’t mention her minor infraction of cat treats at the table. Besides, roasted chicken was Hugo’s favorite thing. Along with tuna from a can, nondairy cat milk, soft cat treats, catnip dried and fresh, melted ice cream, and—strangely—cantaloupe.
“We got a lot done this afternoon, didn’t we, Mom?” Celia said, helping herself to two extra-large scoops of potatoes.
“Sure did,” I said keeping my voice neutral. “Celia and Sky are ingenious babysitters.”
“We played Nancy Drew and hide-and-seek and Marco Polo in the garden,” Celia told her grandmother, who said that was all very nice.
“I read your mother Nancy Drew when she was little,” Mom told Celia. She passed the salad and muttered, “Perhaps I should have stuck to Anne of Green Gables.”
I couldn’t blame Nancy Drew for my mix-ups in mayhem. “I remember loving The Hobbit too,” I said, in indirect defense of Nancy. It’s not like I’d become a Tolkien reenactor, although Flori occasionally bartered with one. She provided free desserts. He taught her the ways of elfin sword fighting.
“Little Emilie and I were in charge of finding the clues,” Celia was saying, edging into dangerous territory.
I maneuvered my foot around purring Hugo to nudge her shoe.
She ignored me, re-passed the potatoes, and said, “Yep, we gathered lots of information.”
We sure did. Now what to do with it? Soon after Celia and I rejoined the Marco Polo charade, I’d made excuses for the teens and me to leave. Sky had wanted to head straight for the Bureau of Indian Affairs.
“The BIA are the feds,” he said. “They work with the FBI. They can get a search warrant, right? A raid? Take ’em down!”
“We could go to Dad,” Celia suggested. “He was first on the scene. He should get first dibs on catching that sicko Trey Crundall.”
Sky generously said that the BIA and Manny should go in as one. “And us too. We should get to come along. We caught him, right, Ms. Lafitte?”
I’d told the teens that I’d be happy to take down Trey, if we had firm evidence that he’d stolen the items. I’d pointed out another problem. Judith hadn’t filed a robbery report. Over moans and groans from the teens, I’d added, “Say Trey did take items. How can they be considered stolen if they’re still on Judith’s property and she won’t say they’re missing?”
“They’re stolen, all right,” Sky had said darkly. “Stolen from their people.”
There was no arguing with that. I told the teens they’d done their part. “No more sleuthing. No more Nancy Drew, and no getting Emilie and Eddie involved either. Celia, I’ll talk to your father. I’m going to say I stumbled on the items, or else we’ll all be in trouble, okay?”
Both teens had agreed, a little too quickly for my liking.
“Absolutely,” Celia said, turning to the backseat to look at Sky. If I hadn’t had my eyes on the road, I’m sure I would have seen a blatant wink.
Back at the dinner table, Celia was talking about her friend. “Sky knows a ton about his relatives,” she said, picking up a piece of asparagus with her fingers and nibbling the end. “He can go centuries back, thousands of years, really, to the time of legends. We’ve been to see some of the ancient settlements. They’re awesome.”
Mom frowned, possibly at Celia’s asparagus manners or the implication that Celia knew relatively little about her origins.
“Well,” Mom said. “You should come to Illinois next summer, Celia, and we could visit relatives. My sister Karen is working on the family tree and photographing gravestones. She’s traced our mother’s side of the family to Cornwall and our father’s side to western Germany, as far back as the 1700s.”
Celia failed to look impressed, but then she regularly walks by buildings older than that. “Cool,” she said politely. “What about Granddad’s side of the family?”
Mom waved her fork, a table gesture she would normally frown on. “Canada,” she said, adding to the faux pas by speaking through a mouthful of potatoes. “A flat, chilly part of Canada. Not very interesting.”
Since Mom had dropped her vague bomb about Dad being “swayed,” I hadn’t gotten a chance to speak with her alone. I wondered if she would open up. She sounded downright evasive now, a quality I should know.
Mom shifted in her seat and began clearing the table. “I need to debone the chicken and get it in the fridge,” she said. “Heaven knows, we don’t want to get food poisoning before the holidays. My tummy is already feeling a bit unsettled from that hot pepper I accidentally ate. On a cookie! It was in that tray of bizcochitos you brought home, Rita. It looked like red cinnamon.”
I grabbed the chicken before she could haul it off. “I’ll do this. You tell Celia about Kathy’s latest e-mail. Tell her about the alligators and zip-lining.”
Celia picked up on my cue and expressed enthusiastic interest in gators.
I plucked chicken off the bone, dropping Hugo tastes as I went. What had Dad done? Once, when Celia was assigned a middle school project on family trees, I’d searched for Dad’s name online. I’d printed out his obituary and stared at it, hoping that memories would spill forth. Barely any had. I recalled a man with wildly messy dark hair and a big laugh. There were vague memories of swimming at a lake and a stuffed pink cow won at a fair.
“Rita? Will you get the fruit salad out when you put the chicken away?” Mom asked, bringing me out of my thoughts.
I rejoined the table, thinking that every family had some secrets. A family with a collection like the Crundalls’? They probably had darker secrets than most.
After dinner, Mom again called dibs on the dishes. I called Dalia, who raved about Celia and Sky. “What lovely babysitters, sent from the heavens. The kids simply love them.”
“Did Shasta ever find those missing pieces?” I asked.
She hadn’t, Dalia reported with a heavy sigh. In fact, Dalia’s own efforts to search and rectify the books had revealed even more confusion. “Rita,” she said. “I feel like a fool. I tried to organize the boxes by acquisition number years ago, but I’m no expert. I couldn’t confirm what was inside. I’ve made a mess of things.”
I decided to play one of my cards. “The missing items, did they include part of a skull? Wrapped in velvet?”
Dalia gasped. “Yes! Exactly! How did you know? Did you see it in a vision?”
I liked the thought of conjuring objects’ locations. I’d never lose my car keys again, or the corkscrews that Mom had helpfully reorganized into oblivion. “No. No vision,” I said. “What about a headdress with feathers?”
“Rita, this is extraordinary. How did you know? Were you detecting? Are you on the case? Oh, you should be! Someone needs to think of Francisco. With all these awful bones and threats, I’m afraid we haven’t grieved him properly. We’ll hold a ceremony. A wake and a séance.”
I felt a jolt of worry, and not only about the séance. I’d blown my cover. However, Dalia was my friend and neighbor. I trusted her. She rescued heirloom garden plants and hung out with pacifists and believed she could cure her ailing sister with positive thoughts and amulets. She wasn’t a killer. Besides, I assured myself, she had an alibi for the time of Francisco’s death. A stubborn one. Mr. Peppers. I imagined Jake dragging Peppers into court and nearly laughed. Thinking more seriously, I didn’t want any rumors getting around. I denied sleuthing.
“I was interested in the garden,” I said. “You know I’m always looking for a good gardener.” This was true. As the onsite manager of my mostly absentee landlord’s large property, I’d had a terrible time finding and keeping gardeners. The first guy I hired had exhibited a pathological zeal for destroying flowers. Another liked to whack fruit tree limbs in the wrong season. The others hadn’t shown up at all. And Barton complained he had bad help! At least Shasta mostly showed up and she wasn’t destroying anything. I wondered
how he’d found her. She was from Albuquerque, practically local. A darker thought struck me. Could she have known Francisco? I’d ask Flori to have the Knit and Snitchers check her out.
“Yes, so you were viewing the garden,” Dalia said, obviously trying to hurry me on to the point.
“Well, I saw that cute garage in Judith’s back garden. It was unlocked and I couldn’t resist peeking in. I was checking out what rose fertilizer Francisco used when I noticed the feather. There was the headdress, under the cupboard, and the bit of skull, wrapped in a box.”
“The stars align!” Dalia exclaimed. “Those are important pieces.” She paused. “What will I tell Judith? Trey uses that garage for storage. Selfish boy. He must have taken them. He’s been so mad at his mother. I’ll say it was me, that I misplaced the items in the storeroom.”
“I don’t think you should do that,” I said. “Wouldn’t lying invite—I don’t know—bad vibes?” Bad vibes sounded cheesy at best, a mockery at worst.
Dalia, however, told me that I was absolutely right. “But a secret isn’t a lie, is it? What if the objects suddenly reappear? It’ll be our secret, Rita. We’ll act surprised. Acting’s not a lie.”
“I don’t know, Dalia . . .” I said. “Wouldn’t Judith want the truth?”
My neighbor disagreed. “It’s for her own good. She’s so feeble. She can’t take more hurt and disruption from her disappointing son. You haven’t seen her grow ill like I have. First it was pneumonia. Then, ever since we started meddling with this awful collection, she’s gotten sicker and sicker.”
“It’s not up to me to tell Judith,” I said. “The police might, though. And if they connect Trey to the thefts, they might link him to the threatening letters and murder.”
On the other end of the line, Dalia was silent. Then she said. “Murder? No, that would kill Judith.”
Chapter 24
“Pie,” Lorena Cortez said, stating the obvious. She and Wyatt stepped into Tres Amigas the next morning along with a blast of winter wind during a particularly busy breakfast service. “Cherry cranberry,” she continued, waving a hand over a gorgeous creation. Scarlet red fruit gleamed under a golden pie crust sparkling with sugar crystals and shaped like overlapping pine trees. The pie was truly a work of art, almost too pretty to eat. Not that prettiness had ever kept me from devastating a pie.
“I have a cranberry cheesecake at the shop, if you’d prefer,” she continued. “Oh, you should have both. Wyatt, run back to the shop and get that other pie.”
“No, no,” I said quickly. “This pie is gorgeous, Lorena. You shouldn’t have.” She really shouldn’t have. I felt bad enough already. Here she thought Wyatt was in the clear, and I was digging up evidence that he might not be.
Wyatt put a hand on his wife’s back. “Looks like Rita’s busy, darling.”
I told myself not to read too much into the pointed edge he landed on “busy.” Flori always says I’m a horrible liar and even worse at hiding guilt. Could Wyatt sense my feelings? Had he spoken with Dolores at the spa? According to Flori, who aced the Senior Center’s ill-advised workshop on blackjack bluffing, my “tell” was being extra nice. I dialed down my cheerleader smile and agreed that I was busy. My case was helped by the five empty coffee cups in my hand and the stack of menus slipping out from under my arm.
“Feel free to stay, if you want,” I said. “Take a seat wherever you’d like.” I’d like it if they stayed in the dining room.
“I’ll just put the pie in the kitchen for you,” Lorena said.
So much for keeping them in the dining room. Wyatt followed her, greeting acquaintances on the way. Lorena waved through the pass-through and was beckoned in by Flori.
“Ah, miss? I think that’s my water glass.” A customer looked up from his breakfast.
I looked down and realized I was pouring hot coffee over ice cubes. “Sorry!” I said, to his polite chuckles about “vacation-itis.” At least I hadn’t aimed for the guy’s lap or head . . . this time.
“Too cold for ice coffee today,” the customer added kindly. “Looks like it might snow.”
We made small talk about the weather. I picked up bills and checked on other tables. Then, with no other excuse to delay, I returned to the kitchen.
Flori was standing at the sink, smoothing an apron printed in festive red and green chile peppers. “Rita!” Flori exclaimed in a jovial tone that let me know she meant business. “I’m so glad you’re here. I was just asking Wyatt where I could get a Santa costume. I called the costume shop and they’re fresh out. How many did you say you got for your hotel, Wyatt?”
At the griddle, Juan shook his head and twisted the corner of his lip. Flori’s gambling “tell” was sounding too innocent.
Wyatt shrugged. “Bit late for finding Santa costumes,” he said. Then, as if remembering his festive campaign, he quickly added, “But I sure hope you can snag one! Lorena and I are dressing up as Mr. and Mrs. Claus and going out on the town tonight. It’ll be a barrel of fun.”
Flori said that was a lovely idea. “Rita, Juan, and I should be elves. Wouldn’t that be a hoot?”
“Fun!” I said, in a cheerleader burst. Juan groaned and cracked an egg on the grill with a shaky hand.
“You got the costumes at Zia Dave’s, didn’t you, Wyatt?” Lorena said. “They called yesterday, in fact, to ask if you needed a replacement costume after . . . well . . .”
After he got the first Santa suit covered in blood?
Wyatt squeezed his wife’s hand. “Good thing I got some backup costumes,” he said, going to look at the simmering pots on the stove.
“Ah, posole, my favorite holiday treat,” he said. “Lorena, honey, why don’t you go rustle us up a table and we can have a bowl.”
Lorena, frowning, left without a word. I doubted she was upset about the stew, with its rich red-pepper broth, tender chunks of long-simmered pork, and the namesake ingredient, posole, lye-treated dried corn that puffed like underwater popcorn.
Wyatt reached for a clean spoon and helped himself to a bite of the stew. “I got a strange call from my lawyer yesterday,” Wyatt said after praising the stew.
When neither Flori nor I responded, he said. “Yep, Mr. Strong tells me there’s a question about whether some visiting British women know their Santas.”
“Oh?” I said with what I hoped was a tone of pure incredulity. Flori said the same thing. Coming from her, it sounded a whole lot better.
Wyatt paced the kitchen. “Mr. Strong said those ladies were changing their story, imagining some shorter, Spanish-speaking Santa.” He reached over and patted Juan on the shoulder. “Wasn’t you, was it, my friend?”
Juan flipped an egg and didn’t deign to answer. Instead, he slid the egg onto a plate of cheese enchiladas, one side bathed in green chile, the other red. “Enchiladas, Christmas,” he said, passing the plate to me.
“Ho, ho, ho,” Wyatt said. His round face spread into a smile, yet chills went up my arm.
“So much Christmas festivity at your hotel, Wyatt,” Flori said. “You’ve really outdone yourself this year. Didn’t I see a few other Santas over there? Perhaps that’s what caused the confusion. Oh yes, now I remember. My friend’s nephew-in-law was one of your valet Santas. Well, you never can have too many Santas, can you, Rita?”
I’d had about enough of Santa. “Nope, never enough,” I lied.
Wyatt’s cheeks went rosy. “Lorena wants a festive holiday and that’s what I’m going to give her. It’s already bad enough that that nosy Francisco got himself killed.” He stared into a vat of red chile simmering on the back burner. When he looked back up, his stormy gaze had morphed into a smile. “Well, there’s a positive side to everything, isn’t there? Lorena says she can’t bear to lose me now. We’re going to counseling and out on dates and I still have my other alibi. Mr. Strong assures me that as soon as the police arrest another suspect, the pesky charge against me will be dropped.”
He started toward the kitchen door. As he passed
me, he said, “Rita, take it from me, you have nothing to worry about. Your family is precious. Enjoy every moment with them. Savor time with your mother and daughter. Eat pie! Live it up!”
All fine advice, except one thing. I had a lot to worry about.
“What if the killer and threatening letter writer are two different people?” I asked Flori. She’d invited me out for a walk, destination undisclosed.
Flori punched the crosswalk button. Above the button, the typical crosswalk image of a figure walking had been stenciled over in bones. A skeleton crossing.
“See?” Flor said, pointing at the skeleton. “Graffiti art can be fun.”
I liked the bones well enough, although they reminded me of the real bones cropping up in boxes and garages. Another thought occurred to me. “What if there are three people involved? Killer, writer, and thief?”
“Don’t forget the witch,” Flori said. She looked like a padded gnome, right down to her puffy snow boots. The walk sign blinked on, a normal stick figure crossing.
“Where are we going?” I asked as we cut a long diagonal across the street and the Plaza.
“It’s a surprise,” came her scarf-muffled reply.
We walked a few blocks farther, into a quiet neighborhood of little adobe homes. Some remained family homes. Others were tourism rentals going for rates way beyond a café worker’s means. Still others were small businesses, including a dentist, a lawyer specializing in water disputes, a yogic healer, a fabulous Indian restaurant, and a small German/French bakery. I hoped for the bakery, but assumed the dentist. If he was single and Mom found out, she’d probably try to set me up.
“Here we are,” Flori said, stopping within buttery scent range of the bakery. Beside us, the dentist’s front gate swung open, announcing his holiday special on tongue scraping treatments for fresh breath. Was Flori trying to tell me something?
To my amazement, Flori headed down the driveway leading to the back of the bakery. I trailed behind her puffy coat, past a Dumpster and a stack of cardboard boxes to a back door. Flori rapped three times.