by Ann Myers
“Maybe the old lady did,” Manny said. “I’d want to do some significant harm to anyone who hurt my daughter.”
I would too. Still, Josephina had said that someone had done her “bidding.” “Josephina’s an oddball, but who isn’t a little quirky around here?”
“That’s for sure,” Manny said with a sniff. “Does the health commission know you’re keeping livestock?” We had a clear view of Mr. Peppers and Sidekick. Sidekick balanced on a trash can, hooves pointed together like a goat ballerina. Mr. Peppers stared intently toward our window, flicking his big ears and twitching his velvet nose. Could he smell the rewarmed fried treat?
“They’re visiting actors,” I said, a rather grand description of the gluttonous donkey and goofy goat. “I believe Angel when he said that he was working. You should check his alibi, though. And his grandmother is a bit . . . ah . . .” I struggled for a nice synonym for off her broomstick. “Intense,” I said. “But she did see something that night. A person in a bulky jacket. ‘A wolf,’ she said, but I think she saw a wolf logo.” I reiterated the trail of circumstantial crumbs leading to Trey Crundall. “He’s mad at his mother for giving away that collection and keeping him from the family money. Plus, Judith doesn’t want the police to know, but pieces from the collection have gone missing. I found some in a garage both Trey and Francisco used. Maybe Francisco found out.”
Manny, showing culinary prowess unheard of in our married years, got up and served himself more stew. When he sat back down, he said, “So, in your theory, rich guy kills the gardener who caught him stealing the family bone collection, even though rich mother won’t admit that anything’s missing. What about the letters? And why bother with the devils?”
“A distraction?” I said, knowing it wasn’t the solidest of theories.
Nubby horns appeared at the lowest corner of the window ledge. Wide eyes with alien-slit pupils stared in. Sidekick flashed his eerily humanlike teeth. Manny grumbled that holidays were a distraction, along with goats and criminals.
“Deputy Davis is looking for Trey Crundall,” he said, not admitting that my theory was pretty good. “I’ll tell her to get some backup. I’ll go out and see the old lady.”
“You might want to take someone sensitive with you,” I said dryly.
“Women love me,” he said, flashing his best soap-opera smile. “I should check on that redheaded assistant again too.”
I beamed back. “You do that. Be careful with Josephina, though. She could put a curse on you. She gave Flori’s high school beau a skin disease. He had to move to Minnesota.”
Manny’s grin dimmed.
Since I was at the café, I prepped some sauces and a soup and lined up ingredients for the breakfast service tomorrow morning. An hour later, the sun was setting and I was eager to head home. However, as I passed Judith Crundall’s house, I noticed a police cruiser in the driveway, alongside a rust-splotched red truck I recognized as Sky’s. The truck was Sky’s pride and joy, a gift from his father for his sixteenth birthday. Did that mean Celia was there too? I was running out of excuses to drop by, other than the real one. I wanted to check on my daughter.
I pulled in, got out, and was greeted by a near-miss between my nose and the front door. Barton Hunter stepped out.
“Oh, sorry,” he said, looking harried. “I’m saying that to you a lot, aren’t I?”
I admired his staying power. Other consultants, faced with death threats and a disappearing collection, might pick up and go home.
“Is something wrong?” I asked, my own anxiety rising.
He managed a weak smile. “No. Nothing for you to worry about, at any rate. Your daughter and her friend are babysitting when they should be working for me. The police are here looking for the lord heir of the manor,” he joked, assuming a faux British accent that would have delighted Addie.
“Looking for?” I asked. “They haven’t found him yet?” I caught myself sounding too in-the-know and reworded to “Why do they want Trey?”
Barton, who was checking his cell phone, waved his free hand. “Beats me. They claim they simply want to talk to him. Judith and Dalia haven’t seen him. The ski bum shop is closed. You ask me, he’s off on the slopes enjoying himself while the rest of us sort out this mess.” He scowled and said, “Some of us, that is. My assistant, Miss Moon, has been enjoying a lengthy teatime in the drawing room with that lead detective. Seems he’s extremely interested in her safety.”
Right. Sure that’s what Manny was interested in. I held my tongue, not wanting to upset Barton any more. “How did you find her, anyway?” I asked. “I mean, to work for you.”
Barton rolled his eyes. “The wrong way, apparently. I contacted local colleges with anthropology programs and she was the only one to e-mail back. I might have done better with a temp service.” He ran a hand through his blond locks, which magically fell back into the carefree ruffled look of male catalog models.
“I’m sure you’ll sort this all out soon,” I said.
He made a scoffing sound. “I’m not.”
I excused myself and walked toward the archives wing to look for Celia. On the way, I found Dalia, digging in the yard.
“Crystals,” she said, before I could ask. “Judith’s having a bad spell, so I thought I’d try this. I’ve buried healing crystals in all cardinal directions and in a mandala shape aligned to the setting sun.” She straightened and tucked her trowel into her coat pocket. Dusting off her hands, she said, “Are you looking for Celia?”
The midwesterner in me felt the need to apologize. “Sorry if she and Sky—well, and me too—keep getting in the way.”
“Nonsense!” Dalia took the type of breath that yoga instructors deem cleansing. “Honestly, I’m not much of a grandmother’s grandmother, if you know what I mean. Phillip’s even worse as a grandfather. My daughter’s always fussing at us to do something ‘normal’ with the kids. Celia and Sky are doing wonders to keep the little people happy.”
I turned to go. Dalia called after me. “Your mother is here as well. She’s a wonder!”
I entered the archives room, expecting chaos. Instead, I found Celia quietly reading, a kid on either side of her. Gary the bodyguard slumped in a chair. His dark glasses were on but his head bobbed, suggesting futile resistance to napping. Mom and Sky stood at a drafting table flipping through ledgers.
“Rita,” Mom said. “There you are.” Her tone suggested I’d been out playing while everyone else was hard at work. What were they doing anyway? I asked, and Mom said she’d walked down with Dalia, who wanted to cross-check random archival items and make sure they were actually in their boxes. “She had something pressing to do involving crystals and the solar horizon,” Mom said, frowning at the inexplicable chore. “I told her that I simply love to check and organize.” She beamed. “Sky’s helping too, but neither of us is touching any bones.” She and Sky shared a look of understanding and then dipped their heads to the ledgers. I felt like the odd person out.
“What are you reading?” I asked Celia.
“We’re reading about the twin Zuni war gods,” she said, holding up an academic journal that was hardly standard holiday reading material for kids.
“They’re awesome,” Emilie said. “They keep the world safe. Like superheroes, but really ancient and all-powerful.”
Celia pointed to the journal. “Did you know they’re carved every year? Representations of them. The carvings hold the war gods’ powers and should never leave Zuni lands. It says here, some were bought or stolen in the past. They’re worth mega-money. Most have been given back, but you know there’s a jerk out there keeping ’em for himself.” She scowled in the direction of the storage room.
“Good thing that Judith’s giving sacred items like that back,” I said.
“Good thing,” Celia reiterated. “Because this article says what Dalia’s been telling us all along. These war gods bring misfortune to anyone who keeps them away from their home.”
“Misfortune,” Emilie
echoed darkly.
Eddie, bored, slid off the couch and changed the subject. “Let’s play Marco Polo. Let’s play hide-and-seek.”
Sky wrote something on a scrap of paper and obliged. “Okay, let’s go,” he said. “We’ll play hide-out in the storage room.” Eddie ran off in front of him. I tailed a few steps behind.
“Sky, what are you and Celia really doing?” I asked in my best threatening but cool mom voice when we reached the room.
Eddie ran down the aisles, issuing excited instructions for us to close our eyes. Sky, eyes still open, started a countdown from thirty.
“Sky,” I said. “If this was Celia’s idea . . .” I said “if,” but I was pretty sure it was. Celia had led Sky astray in the past. There had been the cactus painting episode and the time they honored a deceased friend with his favorite beer and got nabbed for driving with an open alcohol container on Pueblo lands.
He shook his head. “This is all my idea. Look, Ms. Lafitte, I don’t want to get Celia in trouble. We’ve got Gary here, watching out for everyone. We’re safe. I just wanted to look for some things.” He held out the scrap of paper. Numbers and letters presumably matched an archival box. “There’s a hide robe from the early 1800s, used in our Pueblo’s dances. My uncle described it to me. It should be here.”
“If it’s here, it’ll be going back soon,” I said.
“Yeah, but what if it gets lost or stolen before then?” Sky countered.
He had a point. Looking up a box seemed safe enough. Sky and I ran our fingers along the boxes until we found the right shelf. A long, skinny box matched the number on Sky’s note.
“Keep hiding,” Sky called to Eddie, whose panting was audible from a row over. Carefully, Sky slid out the box and lifted the lid. “This is it,” he whispered. The box was filled with archival tissue paper. And nothing else.
Sky removed the tissue and stared into the empty box. “We’re too late,” he said, sounding heartbroken.
“There could be another explanation.” I felt through the paper, hoping to feel fabric.
The sound of small feet running, a shriek, and a deep male voice announcing “Gotcha!” made both Sky and me jump.
Barton Hunter strode around the corner, a laughing Eddie draped over his shoulder. “Let’s see that,” he said, peering at the box number and the slip of paper Sky held. “Mmm . . . this could be one of the pieces we sent out for cleaning. Shasta should know. We’ll ask her when she’s done socializing.”
“Shasta and Trey are sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S—” Eddie, the singing tattler, began.
Baron scowled and interrupted the ditty. “Who’s up for another round of hide-and-seek?” he said. “Back to the archives room.”
Eddie ran off with Barton striding behind him.
Beside me, Sky was silent. His skeptical look said it all.
“Let’s wait and see what Shasta can find out,” I said to Sky. “If she can’t locate the robe, we’ll tell Celia’s dad.”
“Tell me what?” Manny appeared in the doorway, grinning. He always enjoyed startling me.
“Is Shasta with you?” I asked. “Sky and I are hoping she can help us find an item.”
Manny, sounding aggrieved, reported that Barton had rudely interrupted his “witness interview” and sent Shasta to get shipping supplies and Indian take-out.
Sky’s shoulders slumped and he headed back to the main archives room.
“Sorry about your date,” I said to Manny.
My ex flashed a wolfish grin. “I’ll manage. Redheads can’t resist me. I’ve got to get back to the station anyway. Davis located Trey Crundall. He was up at the family ski chalet in Taos, drinking himself stupider. She’s bringing him back down.”
“You’ve got your man!” I said with forced cheer.
“Yeah, but what can we charge him with? Being a loser?” Manny peppered in some curses and added, “It’ll be a Christmas miracle if we get a search warrant for any Crundall properties. We can’t go on your wild theories and a crazy old witch’s ramblings about devils and wolves. According to Davis, Trey claims he never put those feathers and bones in the garage. He’s blaming everyone he can think of. The postman, his mother, those kids. Well, he was blaming everyone. I’m sure he’ll clam up once he gets back here and meets his lawyer. Want to take a guess who his wealthy mama hired?”
I didn’t have a chance to say my guess. If I had, though, I would have been right.
“Yep, your pal Jake Strong,” Manny said.
Chapter 27
The next evening the sun set in rosy gray hues, and the Plaza sparkled under colorful lights and glittery snow. Strains of Christmas carols warmed the chilly air as the musicians of Las Posadas made their way up the street.
Jake wrapped his arm around my waist. He wore a black felt fedora and rust-colored scarf tucked into his parka. “I sense I’m in the doghouse with your mother again,” he said. “It’s my own fault. I kept you out too late and the police caught us.”
Winston, a pampered pooch who’s likely never stooped to doghouse levels, shook his wrinkly head. He had felt reindeer horns around his broad noggin, compliments of Celia. A jingle bell adorned the tail end of his fleecy red coat. He looked downright adorable, just like his human dad. Or at least I thought so.
I’d invited Jake to join Mom, Celia, and me as we followed the caroling Las Posadas crew, minus the devils, through downtown. Most of the group was moving slowly, stopping to sing and prod on Mr. Peppers. Mary and Joseph were far ahead, under the devilish influence of Sidekick. The feisty goat cleared their way by butting knees and anything else in his path. Shasta, the usual goat handler, hadn’t shown up. I didn’t blame her for taking a night off, or maybe Barton had her working.
“No, nothing’s wrong,” I lied to Jake. “Mom’s, ah, dehydrated.” We both knew that wasn’t true. If anything, Mom was overhydrated and overoxygenated. I’d given her the oxygen canister as an early gift, hoping to soften the news of Jake not only representing Trey Crundall but also getting him released without charges. As Jake had said, any lawyer could have done the same. The police had no real evidence, and hanging out drunk in the family ski chalet was hardly a crime.
Mom loved the canned air, and while I was glad, I was also afraid it was making her emboldened and belligerent, like Flori after a sip of beer. When Jake met us earlier, Mom issued a tight nod before aiming her greetings at Winston. Even the bulldog hadn’t escaped unscathed, though. Mom asked Winston if he was being a good boy for Santa. Looking guilty, he’d lifted his leg on a snowman. Not his best move.
“Oh, I understand,” Jake said, squeezing my arm. “Your mother’s worried about you and Celia. It’s okay. We criminal defense attorneys have thick skin.”
Jake might have a thick skin against prosecutors and arresting officers, but Mom’s reaction was personal. And how could he understand if I didn’t?
“Mom has this silly idea that Santa Fe’s dangerous.” I sighed, thinking I sure hadn’t helped dispel that image. I’d hear about this next Christmas, when I’d have to return to Illinois. I imagined Mom recounting Wild West horrors over Jell-O surprise.
“Danger does tend to follow you,” Jake said, a teasing twinkle in his eyes. “Here I had no clients, now I’ve got a full plate. I’ll have to start turning people away if you and Flori keep going.” He grinned and nodded toward a tall, skinny statue, reaching for the sky and clad in a green-and-red-striped loin cloth. “Tell Flori, I won’t turn her away when she gets nabbed. I’ve never defended a rogue knitter before. I’ll take free meals as payment.”
“That could be someone else’s knit graffiti,” I said, practically making his case for him.
Jake picked up an embossed calling card reading “SILVER PURL and NIGHT KNITTER—knit the night!” He tucked it into his jacket pocket. “Best to be proactive,” he said. “Like keeping the devils out of the performance. I think Judith Crundall made the right call on that one.”
We’d caught up with Mom and Celia, who’d st
opped to watch three Wise Men and Dalia try to maneuver Mr. Peppers past a bakery. The donkey pressed his lips to the window, blowing kisses—or raspberries—to the horrified workers inside.
“It’s boring without devils,” Celia grumbled. “Police cars are on every corner. Nothing’s going to happen, just like nothing happened last time. I don’t see why we devils have to sit out.”
Sensing I was about to issue maternal platitudes, she said, “I know, better safe than sorry. Whatever.” She rolled her eyes, yawned dramatically, and patted Winston, who was wiggling at the sight of Mr. Peppers.
“I’d better hang back,” Jake said. “Winston here gets a little too emotional about hooved animals.” Winston whined yearningly at the donkey, now being lured away by a Wise Man with a muffin.
Mom tartly said that was a good idea and took a hit of her oxygen.
Mr. Peppers took off at a trot, following the fleeing robed man with the muffin. Mom and Celia followed. I was torn. Should I hang back with Jake or go with my mother and daughter?
“Go on ahead,” Jake said. “Winston and I will pop into the bakery. I need some coffee if I’m going to finish my paperwork tonight.” He offered to get me a cup. I declined. Since my thirties, the merest drop of caffeine after dinner kept me jittery all night long. I was having enough trouble with sleep as it was. Since Manny had calmed down about devil threats, Celia was back home, which was great, except I was back on the pull-out torture device.
I caught up with Mom. She puffed more canned air. “Such a thoughtful gift, Rita,” she said. “You should get yourself some. You know that low oxygen is dangerous. You can become disoriented.”
I let Mom wax on about the joys of oxygen. “Imagine, though,” she said. “What kind of place is this if you have to buy air in a canister? I told your sister all about it over Skype. I told her, I hope I don’t use it all up before I go.”
“We can get you more anytime, Mom,” I said. If Trey Crundall could keep his lackluster ski store open. “Or you can go to the oxygen bar. Remember how fun that was?”