Bread of the Dead: A Santa Fe Cafe Mystery (17 page)

 

Chapter 19

M
y heart jitterbugged until we passed safely through Gloria's gates. No cars sped after us. No knife-­wielding men sprang from the sagebrush. Dancing Eagle Way was moonlit and quiet, except for my car tires grinding over gravel and Flori humming happily in the front seat.

“You're way too pleased,” I said, swerving to avoid a rock the size of a skull. “Go ahead, tell us. How'd you get in?”

“I can't give away all my secrets. Try guessing and I'll tell you if you're close.”

I went first. “Please don't tell me that you scaled Gloria's wall. It's over eight feet tall. If Linda finds out, she'll worry herself straight into the hospital.”

Flori chuckled.

From the backseat, Cass spoke up. “I know how you did it. The valet who got our car, isn't he one of your cousins?”

A huffing sound from Flori confirmed Cass's quick guess. “Yes, I'll give you that. But he's not a cousin. He's my nephew Chago's cousin's boy, Andre. A fine young man, although easily bought off. We must remember not to trust him with any baking secrets, Rita.”

“You bought off
another
relative?” I asked.

“Free chiles
rellenos
for the rest of the year plus New Year's day,” Flori said. “If he says ‘operation cheater' and taps his nose, that's the code for the free food.”

Nearly every week another of Flori's informants showed up at Tres Amigas brandishing a code word redeemable for free food. Flori's system was getting too complex for me to remember. I suggested we keep a handy written chart, an idea Flori squashed, citing the need to avoid a paper trail.

“So, was it worth it?” I asked. “Did you find any useful evidence of bread cheating? All I saw was some flour.”

“Good job!” She slapped me on the thigh, causing me to punch the gas and nearly careen into a juniper. I overcorrected into a jutting rock and she admitted to defeat.

“I didn't find any more than you did. I photographed some floury fingerprints. There's no time to get them analyzed, and it doesn't prove anything either.”

“You make the best bread in northern New Mexico,” Cass said. I peeked in the rearview mirror. She had her head back, her eyes closed, and was practicing her relaxation moves. I could tell by the deep breathing and occasional
om
chants.

“That's very sweet of you, Cass, darling,” Flori said. “As I've told Rita, I actually wouldn't mind being beaten by Armida, if she'd put her real name to the bread. It's cheating. It's not right. And then there's all Gloria's money. Who's to say she hasn't bought off a judge?”

“Wouldn't put it past anyone around here,” Cass said. She can say things like that. Although born in Sweden, her parents moved her to Santa Fe before she could walk. This makes her pretty much local. I say “pretty much” because local purists insist on a grandmother from the region.

No one spoke for a few minutes as we bumped onto Old Santa Fe Trail, headed for town. When we neared Cass's place, she said what we'd all been thinking.

“I keep wondering about Jay-­Jay and Broomer.”

Flori dug out her tape recorder and replayed the muffled, fuzzy recording. “We should take this to the police,” she declared, switching it off before the final lip-­smacking part.

“As evidence of what?” I asked. The tape only repeated the frustratingly vague innuendoes we'd overheard earlier. Jay-­Jay never said why she wanted Victor's key, but I could guess. Maybe, like me and Cass, she suspected that Victor had made a newer version of his will, one that cut her out. If she found it, she wouldn't rush it to the probate judge. She'd destroy it.

I filled Flori in on Cass's and my earlier spotting of Broomer and Jay-­Jay. In the backseat, Cass gave up on
om
and vented more disbelief that Victor would leave Jay-­Jay anything.

Flori was silent for a while. Then she said something that shocked me. “I can see it,” she said in a quiet voice. Her words elicited a not-­so-­quiet protest from Cass, who was still sputtering when I pulled into her driveway to drop her off.

“I understand your feelings,” Flori said, twisting back to look at Cass. “I knew both Victor and Jay-­Jay back then. I always thought those two were oil and water, but he was terribly upset around the time they split.”

“Why'd they break up?” I asked this over Cass's muttering that she could guess why someone would break up with Jay-­Jay.

Again, Flori's response surprised me. “I never did find out why,” she admitted. “And believe me, I tried. I remember the day he told me about the divorce. Linda's wedding day. A terrible day anyway because I knew my baby was marrying the wrong man. Victor, he kept saying over and over how sorry he was and how bad he felt. It worried me. Later on I checked in on him, but he wouldn't talk about it.”

Cass leaned forward and hugged Flori's shoulders before saying good night and going inside. I drove on to Flori's house. Candlelight flickered in her picture window and three shadows moved behind the lace curtains. I recognized the big one as Bernard and the two slender figures as Celia and Rosa. The spiky-­haired silhouette raised her hand in a victory salute. They were probably playing games. Bernard likes obscure card games that we all suspect he makes up. He's so generous that his rules usually favor others winning.

“Come inside, Rita,” Flori urged. “There's more than enough room for you. All I have to do is move my exercise gear and surveillance equipment off the other guest bed.”

I was tempted. Very tempted. Flori's home looked warm and fun. I imagined chamomile tea and candlelight and Flori's pudgy orange cat Zozo curled up on my lap. Reluctantly, I said no thank you. It was nearly midnight. I wasn't worried that my Subaru would turn into a pumpkin, but I knew I'd toss and turn in an unfamiliar bed. More than that, I imagined the grumpy look on Celia's face if I crashed her fun. Grounded or not, she deserved an evening with friends, far from a crime scene.

B
ack home, I regretted my decision. The adobe compound was dark and lonely. A ribbon of crime scene tape fluttered in the shrubbery, and the motion-­detector porch light struggled to flicker on. I parked next to Victor's old Beetle. He'd cringe to see his beloved car already accumulating dust and leaves. He'd also hate the yellow police tape marring his lovely garden.

The tape barrier across his front window had come loose. It waved, seemingly motioning me inside. I skirted the fluttering tape and peered in, trying to conjure happy images of Victor, cookies, and cocoa. The living room was dark. So was the altar. I shivered and was about to leave when something caught my eye. A flicker of light in the kitchen.

For a moment the spirit of the holiday took over. Had I seen a spirit? A ghost? Victor? Not unless ghosts needed flashlights. The beam flashed across the threshold before roving through the living room and sending me ducking for cover. I held my breath, fearful that the light could somehow hear my heart thudding. Murderers returned to the scene of the crime, isn't that what
Law and Order
and Flori always said? Was I within feet of Victor's killer? Or was this another kind of criminal? A common thief, who learned of Victor's death and came to rob an empty house? Anger crept into my fear, and I raised my head enough to sneak a peek. A large figure stood in front of Victor's altar, stuffing the offerings of marzipan and fruit into his pockets. Now I was really mad. Maybe this was the same figure I'd encountered lurking around earlier. Breaking in was bad enough, but desecrating a dead man's family altar was plain mean. I wanted to pound on the window and yell. Instead, I yanked out my cell phone and called 911.

The emergency operator sounded as sleepy as Pacho's Pickup in the morning. I rushed through an explanation, stressing the address and the urgency of a robbery and/or return-­to-­the-­scene-­of-­the-­crime in progress.

“Yeah,” the female voice said through a yawn. “Okay. I'll send someone over when I get a free car.”

I struggled to keep my voice level. “No. They need to get here as fast as possible. He's in the house now.”

“Right, okay,” the voice said. “You say he's where?”

I let out an exasperated sigh and risked a look over the window ledge. “He's in the . . . oh my God!”

The figure had left the altar and was approaching the window, looking out and hopefully beyond me. I froze, every muscle tensing. It wouldn't matter that I was hunkered under the windowsill. All he'd have to do was look down and he'd see me.

The voice on the other end of the line sounded more awake now. “Ma'am? I can have a car there in ten minutes or less. Go to a safe place and wait for an officer to arrive. Do not put yourself in any danger.”

Too late for that
. I clutched my keys. If I sprinted, I could probably reach my car before he got out of the house. But if he didn't try to catch me, he'd flee. I wanted this guy caught. My other option was to cower like a cornered rabbit and pray for invisibility in plain sight. Inside, I heard the thud of something falling. It sounded far away and I sneaked a glance. To my relief, the figure had his back turned to me and toward Victor's wall of painted saints. I dared to stare, hoping to spot an identifying feature, anything to tell a police sketch artist. Despite the dim light, I could tell that he was big and wore bulky clothes. Wiry, shoulder-­length hair splayed into the glow of the flashlight. Massive hands reached out to touch one of the saints. I willed the police to arrive and catch him in the act.

Then he stopped, and for a long few seconds I didn't realize what was happening. His back remained turned, but squinty dark eyes stared straight into mine.

A mirror. I'd forgotten that Victor interspersed the saints with tin-­framed mirrors. The suspicious eyes widened as we stared at each other. I'm sure my own eyes were as broad as pizza pans. I bolted upright, expecting him to lurch toward me. He did move, and fast, but not at me. He grabbed a small saint statue and ran toward the kitchen.

I crashed through the shrubbery, taking the shortest route to my car. When I got there, I fumbled with the door, half expecting the hulk to already be there, lurking in the backseat, knife in hand like a horror movie. No one rounded the corner or loomed in the car. I heard a door slam, followed by the sound of footsteps pounding down the stone pathway of the back garden.

The 911 operator's instructions sounded in my head.
Don't put yourself in harm's way
. I'd already put myself in danger. And the giant had seen me. Twice. He knew where I lived. Where my daughter lived. I had to know more about him. Clutching my tiny key-­chain flashlight, I dashed into the darkness, following the sound of breaking willow branches and big feet splashing up the creek.

 

Chapter 20

I
've had a lot of bad ideas. Marrying Manny the serial seducer ranks right up there, along with myriad missteps like attempting a carb-­free raw diet and paying for the embarrassment of dance aerobics classes. Running after a giant prowler in the dark up a creek while wearing a party dress and ballet flats had to be among my top-­ten worst moves.

The hulk moved quickly and I heard rather than saw him splash into the creek. Propelled by adrenaline, I followed. Branches slashed at my legs, ripping my tights. Tights could be replaced. My feet couldn't. Rocks jabbed into the bottoms of my flimsy shoes and the frigid water shot prickles of pain through my toes. To avoid the willow whips, I waded into the middle of the current, swirling my key-­chain flashlight as I went. A few yards and rocky jabs later, the beam revealed footprints in the mud on the opposite bank. I turned to follow, but my party flats were not made for wading, and my foot slipped, sending my ankle into a sharp U-­turn. Panicking, I flung my other foot forward. My body has never done splits, not now or twenty years ago. New pains ripped through my hamstrings and I fell, hands first, into the water. My end pose resembled a giraffe doing a poorly executed downward dog. I struggled upright and limped to the muddy bank, fighting off a wave of nausea as my ankle throbbed. By the time I reached the shore, I was shaking from pain and cold and frustration with myself.

How foolish could I be? I wasn't equipped for sprinting, let alone up waterways. And what if I'd actually caught up with the giant? Hadn't I chided myself about this last night and then only yelled at him? Peering into the dark woods, I shuddered. He could be feet away and I wouldn't see him. I couldn't hear him either, only the sounds of rustling leaves and the wind. Hopping over to a tree, I leaned against it and tested my ankle, which withstood tentative steps. Then I assessed the rest of me. My palm felt bruised from my tumble, but my ungainly yoga move had saved my phone, which was dry in my coat pocket. My keys, however, had taken a dunk, along with my arms up to my elbows. The little light on my key chain blinked weakly before giving up. I was literally in the dark, up a creek, and dripping wet.

My screaming ankle begged for rest, and I fantasized that help would magically appear. Prince Charming in a carriage would do. Or a taxi. I pictured Pacho's purple sedan bouncing through the forest and almost giggled. A cold breeze snapped me back to my senses. I thought of Linda. She'd worry that I had hypothermia, which brings on delusions and can strike, she claims, at any temperature under sixty degrees. According to Linda, the walk-­in refrigerator at Tres Amigas is a hazard and should require a spotter. The temperature had definitely fallen below Linda's danger threshold. A few snowflakes floated in the air. Had I been warm, dry, and less injured and terrified, the woods might have seemed Christmas-­card pretty. As it was, I couldn't sit around waiting for an icy death and/or a lurking giant.

I began my slow, cold limp across the stream, up the garden, and back home, where an array of red and blue lights lit up the driveway. I saw Manny first.

“Where's Celia?” he demanded. “Is she okay?”

Manny did have some good points, I thought, as I assured him that our daughter was safe at Flori's.

His next sentiments reminded me why I'd left him.

“God, Rita,” he said, frowning at me. “What have you been doing? You look like a wet cat.”

Manny hates cats. This should have tipped me off to our ultimate incompatibility, along with his refusal to eat most green vegetables or anything French. I'd have to watch for Jake's reactions to kittens, baguettes, and spinach. Not that I wanted to date him. No, I'd only be confirming whether he was the good man I presumed him to be.

I didn't want to deal with Manny. Telling him I needed to sit down, I limped toward the casita
,
hoping he'd go do something useful like collect evidence and solve crimes.

He didn't. “So where's this supposed burglar?” he said, stepping in front of me. “Is this another of your fantasies?”

I tried to keep my voice patient as I explained that the intruder had escaped up the creek, finishing with, “And that's why I'm all wet.”

“You're all wet because you make rash decisions,” Manny retorted. “You put yourself in danger, which is why Celia shouldn't be living with you. That was a low move, dragging her from my place last night.”

Now was not the time for a parenting discussion or argument. I changed the subject, gesturing at Victor's house.

“Someone was in there. An intruder. He touched Victor's altar. He stole food. He could be the murderer.”

Manny muttered about my vivid imagination. He probably would have said more except Bunny called his name from the house. She stood by the back door, framed by an icy mist glittering against the porch light.

“We'll resolve this later,” Manny said.

I didn't know what we had to resolve. As far as I was concerned, Manny and I were done. The wind picked up. I yearned to hobble back to the casita and exchange the soggy dress and torn tights for warm flannel pj's. Then there was the ankle. It needed treatment, but what? Were you supposed to ice first or use heat? My medical knowledge focused on cooking hazards. I knew, for example, to never put butter on a burn or underestimate the danger of boiling caramel. I recalled Celia's sporting misadventures. Ice, I decided. Elevation and ice with some kind of nighttime pain reliever to knock myself out. Except for the pain pill, the treatments sounded like a lot more work than flannel, ice cream, and self-­pity.

I watched Manny jog toward the main house. No, he wasn't jogging. He was practically bounding, jumping over decorative stones and skipping up steps, showing off the prowess of his fine, untwisted ankles. I wondered what Bunny had found. Had the intruder broken in a window? Kicked in the door? Left fingerprints or conveniently dropped an ID? The latter would be too much to ask.

Curiosity got the best of me, or maybe hypothermia overrode good sense. I followed Manny, taking the long way along a relatively flat flagstone path.

At the back door, I searched for signs of splintered wood, broken glass, or a picked lock, but found nothing. The laundry room also looked the same as always, neat and tidy with its terra-­cotta walls sporting dozens of Victor's saints. It had to be one of the cutest laundry rooms around, and I really had no excuse for disliking laundry days.

Bunny leaned against the washing machine. “No one's home next door at the brother's house. Nothing seems amiss here, just unlocked doors, which is odd because I know these were locked when we left last time. Whoever was in here must have had a key or be an excellent lock picker.”

“
If
someone was here,” Manny said. “Rita has an active imagination.”

I rubbed my forehead, tired of this line, which had been Manny's favorite during our divorce. According to him, his extramarital pursuits were figments of my imagination, except that some of those imaginary women had confirmed the truth. A slurry of white face paint came off on my palm. I was a mess. He was right about that.

“I don't understand,” I said, turning my smeared face to Bunny. “Someone was in here. I looked right at him. He saw me in the mirror and ran off. I chased him up the creek.”

“Not a good idea, Rita,” Bunny said, shaking her head.

Manny snorted. “You can say that again. Rita has a lot of bad ideas.”

Yeah, like marrying you
.

Bunny continued, her seriousness a sharp contrast to Manny's childish sniping. “Someone was here. We found fresh footprints outside and this jacket.” She held up a padded camouflage coat with ragged cuffs and POW/MIA patches down one sleeve. A skull with flames was embroidered on the back. “Recognize this? Is it Victor's?”

“That is
not
Victor's,” I said, thankful for some evidence of an intruder's presence. I described where I'd seen the hulk and tried to recall his features. “Small eyes,” I said. “And frizzy hair, going all over the place. Some gray.”

Manny's phone rang, and he went outside to take the call, to my relief.

Bunny scribbled in her notebook. “We need to clear this matter up,” she said. “This break-­in is suspicious. You have to know, though, Rita, it doesn't prove anything.”

Blood pounded from my sore ankle straight to my confused brain. “Doesn't prove anything about what?”

Bunny cocked her head. I interpreted this, and her thin smile, as an attempt to look sympathetic. “We're waiting for word from the medical examiner. There's still the possibility that your friend took his own life.”

“But the break-­in—­”

“Could be pure coincidence. We get a lot of burglaries in this part of town. It's a thief's dreamland. Big walls, big-­time art collections, absent owners, and it's no secret that this place is deserted.”

Deserted. The word tugged at my heart. It sounded like Victor had simply walked away. Had he? Had he left this world on purpose? I refused to believe it. I bundled my coat around me, feeling clammy wetness instead of the warmth I craved. What's worse, I could almost buy Bunny's explanation about the coincidence of the intruder. Victor was gone and decay in the form of dirty cars and filthy thieves was taking over.

“We'll know more soon,” Bunny said. “Probably by Monday the coroner will give us her report.” She inspected the wall of saints behind the dryer. “You'd be surprised how easy ­people make it for thieves to break in. They give out keys to workmen and casual friends. They leave keys under flowerpots or under the doormat or those ridiculous fake rocks.”

Her words reminded me of what Jay-­Jay had told Broomer. According to her, Victor hid keys in obvious spots. “You have to see this,” I told Bunny, unwrapping my coat to get to my phone. The phone, as usual, took its time waking up. As it did, I rushed through explanations of the Jay-­Jay and Broomer sightings.

“Here,” I said, when the photos finally appeared. “Look at this.” I hadn't exactly expected an “aha” moment from Bunny, and I didn't get one.

She frowned at the shots. Her silence eventually ended in a perfectly reasonable, “This doesn't prove anything.”

I explained again what we'd overheard from the party. “Victor's ex-­wife was telling Broomer to find Victor's key. She wanted something in this house. She said the same thing you did, that Victor was silly about leaving spare keys in obvious places.”

Bunny seemed overly hung up on a detail. “So you said you were in some Texan lady's pantry when you overheard this?” To her credit, she wasn't Manny. She didn't call me a fool or disparage my judgment or sleuthing. She did, however, look unimpressed. “We'll look into it,” she said, in the rote way that I warn customers about hot burrito platters.

“You should have heard them,” I protested. “They're up to something.”

Bunny gave me the head-­tilting sympathy look again. “Go home, Rita. Put your ankle up.”

I felt my cheeks fire up, this time in anger. “I'm not going to sit around with my feet up eating bonbons when my friend's been murdered.”

For one of the first times ever, I earned a genuine smile from Bunny. She nodded toward my ankle. “I meant, elevate that sprain. Put some ice on it too. Rest, ice, compression, elevation: RICE. I'll call you in the morning.”

“To check on my ankle?”

“To get you in to look at mug shots. Your intruder might already be on our radar.”

I shuffled home, thinking about Bunny's departing words.
Stay out of it, Rita,
she'd said. She must have known that I couldn't do that.