Feliz Navidead

by Ann Myers

  I’d sent Mom to the downtown oxygen bar the first time she visited me. She’d loved it, except for the price and the idea of splurging on oxygen and the word bar in the name.

  We caught up with Mr. Peppers. The donkey had stalled again, attracted by a manger scene in a storefront window. Dalia was whispering in his big ears.

  “I was telling him to listen to the spirits of his hardworking ancestors,” Dalia said with exasperation.

  Mr. Peppers yawned, showing off a mouthful of grass-stained teeth.

  “It’s that foolish Wise Man’s fault,” Dalia went on. “He let Peppers eat the entire muffin. And where are Mary and Joseph? It’s like they’re running a race! It’s just as well Judith isn’t here to watch. This Las Posadas isn’t up to her standards.”

  “The singing is lovely,” I said. “Look at the big crowd. Everyone’s having fun.”

  Dalia shrugged. “It’s not the same without devils. They bring a certain joy.” She patted the donkey’s furry neck. “Or maybe I’m imagining it because I feel bad for Judith. A few of the carolers said they’d go up to the house later and serenade her. I hate to think of her missing out on Christmas.”

  Judith Crundall might financially support Las Posadas, but she didn’t strike me as the holiday sentimental type. Still, caroling was a nice gesture. So was the bouncy song the carolers were singing to Mr. Peppers: “El Burrito Sabanero,” the little donkey from the savannah. Celia had learned the lyrics in elementary school when we’d come to visit Manny’s relatives.

  “Remember this?” I asked Celia.

  She shrugged in teenage nonchalance, stifled a smile, and sang a few lines. Mr. Peppers perked up and started walking again, lifting his hooves high in a proud prance.

  “One more street,” Dalia said. She let out a breath that I interpreted as relief. I felt relieved too. Sure, the evening hadn’t gone the way I’d hoped between my mother and Jake, but Mom seemed happy enough now, chugging her oxygen and humming along. The carolers led the way to the south side of the Plaza. Ahead, the Cathedral and the towering pine tree beside it sparkled in white lights. The snow was picking up too, falling in thick flakes that coated the park benches and branches. Some of the audience gazed upward, mesmerized by the swirling white. Others took cover under porticos. I spotted the British ladies huddled under a summery parasol, and Lorena and Wyatt, holding flickering candles and wearing Santa hats.

  “Beautiful,” Mom said. “How lovely.”

  It was lovely. The three Wise Men had gathered beside Mr. Peppers, who was contentedly chewing on a tortilla. I found myself swaying with Celia and Mom, singing along to “Silent Night.”

  Except the night wasn’t silent much longer. We’d just sung “all is calm” when a scream pierced the melody, sending the crowd and Mr. Peppers scattering. Dalia yelped and bolted after the donkey until she saw what had caused the chaos. A woman backed away, yelling for help as Barton Hunter, holding his bloody head, staggered forward and collapsed at the feet of the Wise Men.

  Mr. Peppers bolted. One of the Wise Men went pale and started to wobble. Another whipped off his robe and pressed it to Barton’s head.

  “Call an ambulance!” Dalia yelled, rushing to Barton’s side. He lay on his side and groaned.

  “Let’s get out of the way,” I said to my mother and daughter, taking a step back as a good example.

  Mom dutifully followed me. Celia held her ground and whipped out her phone. “Dad!” she exclaimed after tapping a speed dial number. “It’s the other devil, Barton. He’s been attacked. He’s all bloody.” Celia paused to answer questions. “No, I’m okay. There are some Wise Men with him and Dalia. Yeah . . . Mom’s right here.” She held out the phone to me.

  I took it along with a deep breath and then told my grumpy ex to get here fast. Down the street, Mr. Peppers trotted away, head high and wheezing like a steam train. A tall figure holding on to his hat sprinted after him. Even through the filter of snow, I easily recognized Jake and the antlered bulldog and galloping goat running along beside him.

  Chapter 28

  The ambulance skidded around the snow-slick corner and out of sight. “I wish they’d let me go with Barton,” Dalia said. “He’s all alone here, no family.”

  “He’ll be okay,” I said, with optimism I didn’t feel. “It’s best that the officer goes with him and can take his statement immediately. With head injuries, people sometimes forget later on.”

  I was actually glad that officer was Manny. He knew the case. Plus, I didn’t need to hear any more of his accusations about me putting Celia in dangerous situations. I told myself he was wrong. From what Dalia understood, Barton hadn’t been at the abbreviated Las Posadas. He’d been suddenly attacked while walking down a nearby street and “staggered toward the light,” as he’d put it.

  The sirens faded, and the gawkers, shaken actors, and carolers dispersed. Mom and Celia waited on a bench under a portico. Mom clutched her oxygen and Celia kept her head down, texting furiously. It was cold and snowing more heavily. I knew I should get them home. After one more question. “Did Barton see who attacked him, Dalia?”

  She shook her head slowly, in what I interpreted as a negative.

  I put a hand on her shoulder and told her, “It’s okay, the police and EMTs will take good care of him—”

  “Trey!” she said. “He managed to say ‘Trey.’” She reached under her layers of scarves to grasp one of her crystal necklaces. Rubbing the clear stone, she said softly, “What if Trey did this? Oh, I can’t even think of it! I have to get back and be with Judith.” She patted her pockets until she found keys. Then she looked heavenward. “Oh stars! How could I forget? That donkey! I have to find him and the goat.”

  I felt my phone buzzing in my pocket. The text was from Jake. I read it and said, “I’ve got a lead on Mr. Peppers and Sidekick. Jake and I can get them safely back home if you’ll do me a favor. Will you drop my mother and Celia off at my place before going to Judith’s?”

  Dalia gratefully agreed. “I want to check on Phillip and the kids first anyway. It’s no trouble at all.”

  Mom eyed me suspiciously when I told her the plan. “I’m just going to help Jake get Mr. Peppers corralled,” I said. “I’ll come home right after.”

  “I won’t wait up,” she replied.

  I followed a trail of prints—hoof, paw, and cowboy boot—to an appropriate meeting spot. Burro Alley. The name originated long ago, when wood collectors and their pack burros hauled firewood in from the hills and sold it along the block-long lane. Today, the alley features donkey murals and statues, including a life-sized bronze donkey forever draped in logs. Mr. Peppers stood by this taller, thinner, and more industrious version of himself, nuzzling the statue’s nose. Sidekick leaned his horns into the bronze donkey’s knees.

  “Good choice of spots,” I said to Jake, who was holding the leads of all three animals, as well as Winston’s discarded antlers. The bulldog panted at the donkeys adoringly.

  Snow had accumulated on Jake’s hat and broad shoulders. He stomped his boots. “I didn’t want to take these two escapees too far away in case Dalia wanted them back. Peppers seemed happy to stop here.”

  I patted Mr. Peppers and told him he was a chicken to run off. The donkey, unrepentant, shoved his nose at my purse. I realized I had some old bizcochitos in there—Addie’s vegan variety. Vegan wouldn’t wreck his nonexistent diet. I gave Peppers and Sidekick a half cookie each and filled Jake in on what had happened.

  “Barton Hunter, eh?” Jake said. “And Dalia says he pointed the finger at Trey? Wish I’d gotten to drink that coffee before Peppers took off. Do the police know what Barton said?”

  I told him that Manny was in the ambulance with the stricken man. “If they don’t know already, they will soon enough. Let’s get Mr. Peppers back and you can hunt down Trey.”

  Jake patted the donkey on his haunches. “I can’t say I’m eager to get him out of trouble again. If he’s truly the one who sent you and Celia those th
reats, I won’t be keeping him on as a client.”

  Mr. Peppers was reluctant to leave his new metal friend. However, his devotion faded when I held out my last cookie.

  Jake patted the donkey and asked about my mother and Celia. “If they’re waiting for you, Winston and I can herd these two back to their paddock.”

  “Dalia’s taking them home before heading to Judith’s.” I glanced over at Jake, who was looking extra-handsome bundled up against the snow. “Mom said she’s not waiting up for me. Pity . . .”

  Jake put his arm around me and agreed that it was a shame. “You know what I want for Christmas?” he asked, the smile lines flaring around his eyes.

  Looking up at him, I felt snowflakes melting on my cheeks.

  “Time alone with you,” he said, and leaned down to kiss me.

  Flori announced the capture of Trey Crundall late the next morning, right when I was attempting to balance three platters on my wrist.

  “They got him!” she crowed. “He went right back to Taos, the fool.”

  My load of cheese enchiladas, Christmas-style, tipped precariously. The bowl of piping hot posole wobbled.

  Flori saved me from brunch collapse by taking the posole and accompanying me to the packed dining room. Tomorrow was Christmas Eve, meaning today was the last day before Tres Amigas closed for a holiday break. Our regulars had shown up, eager to fill up on Flori’s Christmas posole and gossip. The Knit and Snitchers were out in full force. Needles and tongues clacked. The British ladies had also returned and were filling in Addie’s vocabulary with words such as gobsmacked, beastly, and blimey.

  “Sloshed, Trey was,” Addie said when we all convened back in the kitchen. “Drunk as a lord.”

  “Under some kind of influence,” Flori agreed. “The Taos police nabbed him but not in the Crundall ski chalet like before. He was in a cabin rented under the name Shasta Moon, but she wasn’t there.”

  Before I could follow up about Shasta, Flori continued. “One of my friends has a great-niece who cleans over at the police station. No one ever pays any attention to the cleaning staff, so they get the best info. Well, the niece said that Trey was ranting on with the wildest story that he was the victim. Said he went to a bar in Santa Fe to have a drink and blacked out. Claimed he had no memory of getting to Taos and only came to when the police pounded on the door.” Flori shook her head in disbelief. “Your Mr. Strong ordered extensive drug tests, just in case.”

  Addie muttered, “Poppycock,” and I had to agree.

  Flori said, “There’s more. I heard that Judith allowed the police to search her house, garage, and Trey’s ski business too. It looks like Trey’s been selling off pieces from that horrible collection for years and picked up his thieving recently. Some of the most important objects are gone. He must have panicked, seeing that it was all going to be repatriated.”

  I thought of Trey and his interests in pot, snowpack, and board wax. I could see him pawning a few baskets or bowls for extra cash, but connecting with a hard-core underground black market for bones? He would have needed help.

  “So where is Shasta?” I said. “She didn’t show up to walk Sidekick in Las Posadas last night.” Was she on the run like Manny suggested? Or was she another victim? I shuddered, thinking of all the deep canyons and remote landscapes between here and Taos where a killer could dump a body. Or perhaps she’d simply gone home. “Surely Manny checked down in Albuquerque,” I said.

  Flori was filling a tortilla with slow-roasted pork in red chile sauce. “Now that’s one of the best parts,” she said. “I was saving it for last. Bill Hoffman heard that Deputy Davis went down to Albuquerque to look for Shasta Moon. Get this, she found her!”

  “That’s great!” I said.

  “Not so fast,” Flori said. “I didn’t get to the interesting bit. Shasta Moon never left Albuquerque.”

  “What?” Addie and I said in unison.

  Flori loves telling a good story. She made us wait as she tucked in the ends of the burrito, draped it in the red and green chile sauces, sprinkled on cheese, and slipped it under the broiler. Looking over her Harry Potter–style bifocals, she said, “The Shasta we know is a fake.”

  When Addie and I appropriately gasped, she said, “Deputy Davis and the UNM police located a graduate student by that name. She’s been working on a bone study in her lab for the entire winter break. She’d never heard of the Crundalls.”

  I pondered Flori’s revelations throughout the lunch rush. Had Trey and the fake Shasta known each other previously? Or had she seen the temporary job and Trey’s lax morals as opportunities to steal from Judith’s collection? Who was she? Where was she? I was so consumed by questions that I mixed up orders and was more inept than usual with the cash register. Customers kindly joked off my mishaps as “vacation fever.”

  “Go home!” Flori finally ordered at ten minutes to two. “It’s Christmas Eve eve! We’re officially on vacation. I have to get going too and start my holiday meal preparations. I certainly miss Linda’s tamales.”

  I knew she missed having her eldest daughter home for Christmas most of all. We promised to keep in touch.

  “I’ll find you tomorrow night for the Christmas Eve farolitos,” Flori said. “If you want to bring your mother and Celia over, we’re having a big feast on Christmas Day.” Flori had already invited me several times. I hated to turn her down, but I knew Mom would prefer her traditional meal. I was already pushing Mom’s limits by inviting Jake to celebrate with us because his parents were in Wyoming visiting his sister.

  “I’ll do my best,” I said to Flori. So far, my best hadn’t worked out very well at all.

  Chapter 29

  On Christmas Eve day, Celia again headed down to the Crundall mansion to babysit. I was suspicious but not all that worried since Trey still languished in jail. The drug tests Jake had ordered were delayed by the holiday, and Judith Crundall was teaching her thieving son a lesson by refusing to post his bail bond. Mom and I stayed in and cooked, preparing her favorite cranberry-orange relish and mixing up the dough for her wonderful savory monkey bread, which tastes like stuffing in bite-sized, buttery bread form.

  As fat snowflakes fell outside, we took a baking break for tea and family gossip. “Remember when Aunt Sue used to play the drums?” Mom said. “Uncle Carl would walk around town for hours until she was done practicing. Then she’d start up again right when he got back, to show him how well she was doing.”

  I grinned. “I remember her bringing down the house at the Lutheran church.”

  Mom agreed that Sue might have missed her calling in percussion. “I’m glad for your little friend Addie,” she said. “She’s a bit odd, but she’s pursuing her passion, isn’t she?”

  She sure was. Mom, Celia, and I had gone to see Addie perform an early show at a downtown lounge last night. Addie’s soulful Christmas carols earned a standing ovation from us, her British friends, and the rest of the crowd.

  “You liked your job, didn’t you, Mom?” I asked. I’d always assumed that she did. Mom had a passion for organizing and shelving, as my spice drawer, pantry, and closet could attest to.

  “Oh yes, it was fine,” Mom said. “I love libraries.”

  We certainly shared that in common. “I always liked meeting you there after school,” I said. When I was little, I’d been allowed to walk the few blocks from my elementary school to the public library, where I’d read until Mom got off work. I thought how difficult it must have been for her to juggle work and two kids.

  Mom was reminiscing about watching out the library window, waiting for Kathy and me to appear.

  “You did a great job on your own, Mom,” I said, meaning it.

  Mom reminded me of Dalia, studying her teacup for a message. Except her clear herbal tea had no leaves to read.

  “Rita,” Mom said, suddenly serious. “Do you remember much about your father?”

  Memory’s not my best trait. Flori can recall what she wore for each first day of school and what ca
ke she ate for every birthday celebration. My memories were foggier.

  “Not too much,” I admitted. My heartbeat sped up. Was Mom about to drop something big?

  Mom went to the stove and poured more water from the kettle over her teabag. “About your father, I’ve been meaning to—” My phone, blaring “Jingle Bells,” cut her off.

  “Oops, sorry!” I said, grabbing it. I intended to turn it right off, but then saw it was Celia. I mouthed her name to Mom, who gestured for me to take the call.

  “Everything okay on the babysitting front?” I asked.

  “Fine,” Celia said offhandedly. In the background, Eddie was talking loudly about trains. His sister told him to shut up and read.

  My suspicion shot up, and not because of the squabbling kids. Celia’s “fine” sounded too cool. “What’s up?” I asked, trying to match her nonchalance.

  “Not much,” Celia said, lowering her voice so that I could barely hear it over Eddie’s siren screech. “It’s just that . . . Sky and I . . . we think someone’s trying to kill Ms. Crundall.”

  Sky’s excited voice came over the line. “We know it!”

  I told them to stay where they were. “I’ll be right down.” I apologized to Mom while struggling to zip my parka. In the end, I left the coat open. “Celia and Sky are . . .” I paused, wondering how much to tell Mom.

  “They need you,” Mom said. “Go.”

  I was halfway to the car when she called out the door. “Zip your coat up, Rita. You’re no good to anyone if you catch a cold.”

  I found the kids and teens in the archives room. “Arsenic,” Sky said in an incongruently merry voice. He sat at the long table beside Eddie, who was occupied with a coloring book of trains.

  Emilie looked up from her Nancy Drew and frowned. Eddie took no notice other than to sing out the word arsenic.