by Ann Myers
“We don’t need any more baked goods,” I said righteously.
“We’re not here for sweets,” Flori said, banging again. “We’re here to inquire about a witch.”
The door opened a crack, and Angel Ortiz, grandson of our missing witch, poked his head out. His goatee was as threadbare as ever. The black apron he wore was nearly white with flour and hung below his knees. “You weren’t followed?” he asked.
“Absolutely not,” Flori said, a bold claim, seeing as how we openly strolled across town on a sunny winter’s day. She reached into her cloth knitting bag and drew out a walkie-talkie. “Ten-four,” she said. “The eagles have landed.”
“The runway is all clear, Night Knitter,” said a scratchy voice I recognized as Miriam’s. “Silver Purl, ten . . . ah . . . ten-five and out.”
“See?” Flori said to a baffled Angel.
Now I understood why a vintage red Toyota had kept driving by us. Miriam had been our lookout. My eyes were adjusting to the dark room where we stood. A storeroom, I guessed. The air was thick with flour dust.
Angel shuffled and studied his feet and said he didn’t have much time. “I need this job. This police trouble with Nana seeing the murdered devil, it got me fired from my good job. The boss didn’t like cops coming round asking for me.”
“Are you a baker here?” I asked, hoping to calm him with pleasantries. “I love this place. The poppyseed cake is wonderful.”
Angel shrugged. “They don’t let me bake. I haul flour and mix and wash dishes. The job won’t last. They only need holiday help.”
“Sorry,” I said. I meant it. The young man had too much talent to be wasted on dirty dishes.
Flori had more pressing matters. “Your grandmother, Angel. We need to speak to her.”
He shook his head so vigorously that flour dust billowed. “No. I’m keeping Nana safe. She didn’t hurt anyone, no matter what she says.”
“Rita and I know that,” Flori said, as I wondered whether I believed that or not. “If you let us talk to her again, we can find a way to help you both.”
“How?” Angel demanded.
How indeed?
“We’re already steps ahead of the police,” Flori claimed boldly. “If Josephina can help us solve the crime, you won’t have to worry about them bothering you anymore. And maybe we can find you a better job in a nice café or pie shop.”
A squawk from her knitting bag interrupted Flori’s rousing speech. She dug out a ball of yarn, needles, and a pair of black gloves before extracting the walkie-talkie. “Night Knitter,” she said.
“Silver Purl, on the prowl. Black-and-white headed your way,” Miriam said. “Moving to rendezvous site now.”
“Cops?” Angel sputtered, interpreting knitter code faster than I could. In between bilingual curses, he expressed regret for ever agreeing to meet.
“Now, now, dear, such language,” Flori said. “My associate is on her way. Gather your things and remember your coat. It’s cold outside.”
Chapter 25
We hurried to the back end of the bakery’s lot, squeezed through a coyote fence of rough-cut branches, and cut across the garden of a tax accountancy office. Getting to the accountant’s driveway required pushing our way through a pitchy pine tree and sweetly scented sage. As I was shaking conifer needles and globs of resin from my hair, the accountant looked out his window and frowned. Flori waved pleasantly. Angel continued to mutter curses. I didn’t blame him or the befuddled accountant. Just as we reached the street, Miriam swung around the corner and we all clamored into her Honda. Angel and I jumped in the back, finding space amid enough yarn to outfit a flock of sheep. Flori took the front seat and buckled in.
Breathlessly—and anticlimactically—Miriam stomped on the gas and announced a false alarm.
“It was only that nice Deputy Davis going into the bakery,” she said. “I waited a tick and saw her come out with a poppyseed cake.”
“Lovely choice,” Flori said, as if she and Miriam hadn’t just made us flee through shrubbery and fluster an accountant for no reason.
“I punched out fifteen minutes early,” Angel said. “My boss is going to kill me. He’ll fire me.”
“He won’t, dear,” Flori said. “I happen to know that man’s secret hobby. I could call him on it, if you like. It’s not something he’d want out there.”
“Leather,” twittered Miriam, sounding happily scandalized. “And masks.”
“No!” I said, “No, no, no. We are not getting involved in whatever that baker does in his free time. It’s Christmas, remember?”
In the front seat, Flori’s puffy-shouldered coat rose and fell. She twisted but couldn’t quite face us because of the enormity of her winter wear. “He won’t fire you anyway, Angel. Everyone’s hard up for help around the holidays. I don’t know what I would have done if Rita had gone back to Illinois for Christmas.”
“You wouldn’t be investigating a murder,” I said glumly. I wouldn’t be either. Nor would I be thinking of devils and witches and bone collections. What would I be doing right now? Sorting through my boxes of old high school stuff, like Mom was always after me to do? Suffering through tea with Mom, Aunt Sue, and Albert the dentist? Figuring out what Dad had been up to? Now that would be intriguing. Or too close to home. Like the baker and his leather, some things might be best unknown.
“Nonsense,” Flori said. “You didn’t start this. We’re only helping out, in the spirit of holiday giving. Now, Angel, since we’re in the car, let’s go see your delightful grandmother. Does she like to knit? We could bring her some yarn.”
Angel had slumped down among the skeins. Seemingly resigned, he said, “Sí. Nana knits. But she won’t be happy to see you. She thinks you brought the cops to our house. She blames you. She’s been making spells . . .”
There was another thing I wouldn’t be doing in Illinois. Getting cursed.
Angel directed Miriam on a winding route through pretty adobe homes tucked among junipers, pines, and sagebrush. Boulders and walls further disguised the homes, which were coated in earth-toned stuccos. After driving up a short but steep dirt road, we arrived at a cluster of upscale townhomes perched on a hill.
Angel sighed. “We didn’t think anyone would discover us in a place like this.” His tone suggested that he wasn’t happy to find himself here either.
“You did quite well hiding,” Flori said. “I only found out because your grandmother put a curse on the UPS man, and he told the relative of an acquaintance who knew I was looking for Josephina.”
“I told her not to curse him,” Angel said glumly. “I said, no cursing or spells or potions.”
Miriam brought the Honda to a jolting stop at the edge of a rather precipitous drop-off, and we all got out.
“It’s gorgeous up here,” I said, hoping to perk him up. “What a view!” Before us, plains dappled in snow stretched out for miles, punctuated by gray-blue ridges darkening into charcoal purples. Their names still sounded exotic to my Midwest ears: the Sandia, Ortiz, Jemez, and lyrical and dark Sangre de Cristo, the blood of Christ.
Angel seemed unimpressed. “I like home better. They have all sorts of rules here and it’s too high up and exposed. I feel like we’re being watched.”
I could see why he felt that way. A woman getting into her Cadillac stared at us, her pinch-faced expression likely a commentary on Miriam’s beat-up ride and Angel’s droopy pants. Or maybe it was me and my wind-whipping hair, or Flori, sizing up a statue of a somewhat grotesque horse by the entry gate.
Angel punched in the code and walked us through a lovely, dry-landscaped courtyard to a small patio enclosed by an adobe wall. “My great-aunt owns this place. She’s out of town for the holidays and let us stay, as long as Granny doesn’t cook up certain stuff on her new stove.”
He tapped lightly before unlocking the door.
Josephina sat on a coral-colored sofa watching a blaring infomercial for an electronic quesadilla press. Her grandson greeted her with a k
iss to her leathery cheek. “Nana, look, I brought your school friend by,” he said. To Flori, he whispered, “She might not remember seeing you. Sometimes, she’ll only speak in Spanish.”
“Hola, Josie,” Flori said heartily. “It’s been a while.”
Josephina cracked a toothless smile. “Florita! Where have you been? Did you run off with Robert Peña?” She cackled.
“No. You put a spell on him,” Flori said. “I married that fool Bernard. He was in the newspaper club. Remember him? He played football too, and the violin.”
I tried to imagine young Flori, Bernard, and Josephina, decades ago. Flori would have been pretty and dark-haired, like her daughters and granddaughters. And devious.
The elderly witch chuckled. “I remember. You rode the horse to school. In pants.” She patted the seat cushion beside her, inviting Flori to sit.
Miriam and I took two uncomfortable straight-backed armchairs in the corners of the room. Angel went to the kitchen to get drinks.
“Scandalous, as always,” I joked to Flori.
“Nothing wrong with pants,” Flori said. “Or alternative forms of transportation.”
She and Josephina chatted about a handsome chemistry teacher and Josephina’s cursing of the gym instructor before Flori got down to business. “I hear you were up on the roof of the Pajarito the other night. The night Francisco Ferrara was killed,” she said casually.
Josephina grinned and said something I couldn’t catch in low, fast Spanish.
Angel, returning from the kitchen with a tray of clinking glasses and a pitcher of apple cider, said, “She says that the devil got what he deserved.” He poured and distributed glasses while Flori teased out details.
“It’s good you were there, Josie,” Flori said.
“Of course I was there. I made the spell. I put the spell on the devil,” Josephina said reasonably.
“Nana,” her grandson cautioned. He gave her a glass and told her to drink. “You didn’t do that. Tell the ladies what you saw.”
“El diablo,” Josephina declared, sending my thoughts back to that night. The dark roof, the stench of sulfur, the howling wind, the body. Santa in devil’s blood. Josephina fixed her dark eyes on me and cracked a gap-toothed smile.
I shook the thoughts away. “There was a man dressed like Santa,” I said. “Did he kill the devil? Stab him?”
Waving a gnarled hand as if this were a silly question, Josephina said, “Santa? No, no. Santa was too frightened. Useless. It was the lobo who did my bidding.”
Now this was new. I looked to Flori, but she seemed as perplexed as I was.
“A lobo?” Flori asked. “Do you mean a wolf?”
“Sí, el lobo,” Josephina said with a pleased cackle.
“They say a witch can take many forms,” Miriam said, helping herself to a cookie. “That’s what my grandmother used to tell us kids. She once saw a witch turn into a fox. She said she heard La Llorona too, and that water witch almost pulled her into the river.”
Josephina nodded knowingly. Angel crossed himself at the mention of the “Weeping Woman,” La Llorona, said to haunt waterways. Even my macho ex had confessed to childhood nightmares of the spirit, known for her unearthly wails and snatching of children. In Santa Fe, she was said to haunt the river near the offices of the Public Employees Retirement Association. I often thought of her as I crossed the nearby bridge.
I’d never heard her weeping, though, or been yanked into the water. I reminded myself that I didn’t believe in such lore. There had to be a more earthly explanation, one that Manny could arrest and Jake could cross-examine. “What did the wolf look like?” I asked.
Angel repeated my question in Spanish. I deduced that he was urging his grandmother to help us so they could leave the condo and get home.
Josephina watched the now-muted infomercial pensively. Then she waved her hand to her grandson. He leaned and she spoke rapidly.
“She says the one who killed the devil wore a big coat. Puffy. Like a parka, I guess you’d say. And she saw the face of the lobo. Red eyes and big teeth. Snarling teeth. Like it was smiling before killing. She said she had often wished for that fate for Francisco Ferrara and it happened.” He reached over and patted his grandmother’s gnarled hand. “Mr. Ferrara tried to help us too, remember, Nana? He gave me the tuition for those culinary classes. He wasn’t all bad.”
I wanted to know more about Francisco and culinary school, but something else was bubbling in my mind. “Wait . . . a red-eyed wolf? Could she mean a logo on the coat? Like a sports logo, like the wolf mascot for UNM?”
Josephina scowled at me as if I was the one who was loopy. “Sports?” she said in perfectly clear English. “I have no time for sports.” She glanced at a grandfather clock in the far corner of the room and chuckled. “The mailman will be here soon.”
Angel’s shoulders slumped below his usual slouch level. “Nana, I told you, we can’t keep bothering him. They’ll kick us out.”
To us, he said, “Sorry. I need to go get my truck so I can get back here before the mail.”
He looked exhausted. I felt for him. It must be hard to juggle his grandmother and whatever work he could find. We left Josephina watching a Spanish-language soap opera.
“She’s bored here, without her herbs and routine and stuff,” he said as we drove back toward Santa Fe.
I thought of my mother. She was likely bored and missing her routine. Now that she’d organized my kitchen, what did she have to do? Mom loved to read at night. She kept busy with errands and chores during the day. I should be home entertaining her, not visiting with a witch. However, the trip hadn’t been wasted. I felt we’d gotten an important clue.
Angel once again slumped in the backseat beside me. I asked him gently, “About Francisco . . . you said he gave you money?”
Angel grunted in affirmation. “Ever since I was a kid. For school supplies and stuff. When I wanted to go to the community college, he paid. My grandmother cursed him, but she does that to a lot of people. He felt really bad for what he did.”
I stored this information away, vowing to tell Manny. Francisco’s generosity gave Angel little incentive to hold a murderous grudge. “And your grandmother called you the night of the murder?” I asked.
He reached into his layers of jackets, pulled out a phone, and scrolled through its screens. “You want the exact time? Here.” He pointed to a call at 7:28. “I was at work, washing dishes.” He named the fancy steak restaurant the Knit and Snitchers had known about. “My grandmother called and said that the devil is dead. I didn’t know what she meant, but I was worried and got in big trouble for leaving. Ask the jerk manager who fired me if you don’t believe me.”
I tended to believe him. Whether Manny would was another story. Flori pulled up near Angel’s beat-up truck. As he was getting up, I asked, “Where did you and your grandmother disappear to the night we visited your house?”
He flashed a broad smile. “Why, do you think we flew away?”
“Stranger things have happened,” Miriam said.
He laughed. “Sorry to disappoint you. Nana sensed something was wrong, so we walked over to a neighbor’s house.”
“Josie always had the sixth sense,” Flori said appreciatively as Angel slouched to his car.
I decided to test Flori’s sense and powers of observation. “You know who wears a Lobos coat?”
Miriam named someone I’d never heard of with “one heck of a dunk.” “Those Chicago Bulls should have picked him up,” she said.
Flori tried—and again failed—to turn fully in her puffy coat. “Who?” she asked.
“Trey Crundall,” I said triumphantly. Yet a small part of me hoped I was wrong, if only for Judith’s sake.
Chapter 26
“What does it take to get you to stop?” Manny said. He sat on a metal stool in the kitchen of Tres Amigas. The seat came with a sparkling stainless steel prep surface, easy access to the cookie jar, and a view of the back garden, yet my ex was predi
ctably grumpy. “Our daughter is threatened. You and that other devil are threatened. Your mother’s in town. Yet you and Flori keep poking around. Can’t you two find another hobby?”
Flori already had way too many hobbies, and it’s not like either of us did this for fun. I maintained a calm front, except for my twitching right eye. Manny wasn’t acting properly appreciative, either for my hot tips or for the steaming green chile stew I’d just served him. He was grouchy out of habit and because he was a Grinch.
Miriam and Flori had dropped me off at the café and continued on to an unnamed “appointment.” I’d bitten the proverbial bullet, called Manny, and asked him to meet me.
“I wasn’t poking anything,” I said. “Flori found out where Angel and his grandmother—a key witness in your case—are staying. We went to visit and discovered what could be a big clue.”
“I’m looking for Angel Ortiz all right,” Manny mumbled. He stopped grumbling long enough to eat some stew. Green chile stew seems humble when putting the ingredients together. First, simple stew meat—beef, pork, or lamb—simmers until tender with broth, onions, and garlic. Toward the end of cooking, waxy potatoes join the mix. It’s the final ingredient, though, that takes common stew to extraordinary: roasted green chiles and a whole lot of them. At Tres Amigas, we use a mix of mild and spicy chiles for a truly warming stew.
Manny tore a corner off a sopapilla, triangle-shaped bread puffed in a deep fryer. New Mexicans tended to save their sopapillas for dessert, coating them with the honey that’s provided as a tabletop condiment. Manny used to chide me for eating sopapillas with my main meal. More evidence of me being an outsider, he’d claimed. Now he dunked some in the stew and ate it before returning to his rant.
“I should pick both of them up,” he said. “Angel and his weird granny.”
“On what charges? Francisco Ferrara helped Angel out financially, ever since Angel was a kid. Why would Angel kill him?”