Bread of the Dead: A Santa Fe Cafe Mystery (25 page)

“Ms. Lafitte has done enough of your job already by uncovering this crime and responding to the destruction-­of-­property call. We're leaving. You can make an appointment for her statement by calling my office.” He handed Manny a business card and guided me out of the kitchen.

“You do lead an exciting life,” he said once we were outside. “I'd like to offer you a ride, unless you want to call your biker friend.”

“No!” I said, and then quickly clarified that yes, I would like a ride, and no, I didn't want to call any bikers. I got into Jake's car. When he reached an intersection, I thought to ask where we were going.

“To the café. Flori's so worried that she was about to abandon her breads.” He looked at his watch. “In fact, I'm under a deadline. If you're not back in ten minutes, she'll come looking for us.”

“Gun it,” I said, attempting a joke.

“Hang on,” he replied, unknowingly echoing Reese. This time, however, I felt like I wasn't rushing into danger, but instead to safety.

 

Chapter 31

A
t the café, Linda and Addie offered me potloads of tea.

“Lovely chamomile mint, pip, pip,” Addie chirped perkily, although I could tell that she was rattled. As Linda kept saying, things like this—­things like multiple murders—­simply didn't happen in Santa Fe.

Linda accepted an ominously dark-­colored scone from Addie and took a seat across from me. Most of the lunch crowd had left, helped along by Flori erasing the entire specials menu and turning the door sign to Closed. The scent of scorched scones provided added incentive to flee.

“I worry about Gabe,” Linda said. “I wish he hadn't insisted on going back to the house.” She took a bite of scone, frowned, and then dropped it back on the plate. It landed with a thud.

I'd stuck to chicken soup, a comfort dish from my childhood. This, however, was not my mother's chicken soup. It was better, although I'd never tell Mom that. The chicken tortilla soup at Tres Amigas features succulent chicken in a vibrant broth of tomatoes and chiles. The best part is the toppings. Lime wedges, radish slices, chopped cilantro, a dollop of sour cream, and crushed tortilla chips make the soup tangy, savory, crunchy, and salty all in one, but I wasn't in the mood to eat. Like Linda, I was worrying about someone.

“Jake said that Tops was spotted down by the train tracks,” I said, trying to ease her worries about Gabe. “There's a tip that he might be heading to Albuquerque. Someone will find him soon and this will be over.”

Linda shuddered. “I misjudged Tops. If I'd known, if any of us at the shelter had suspected he was so dangerous . . .” She paused to gulp tea. Then she gave voice to the worry I'd been keeping silent. “I wish Jake hadn't gone looking for Tops. What if he finds him? What if Tops hurts him too?”

My worries exactly, although I kept chiding myself for thinking them. Jake Strong was a full-­grown lawyer who dealt with criminals every day. He could take care of himself. I was only concerned for the safety of a friend, I rationalized. He was a nice person who helped me out. A hero who rescued me from the scene of a crime and then rushed off into danger for the sake of justice.
Good grief
. I rubbed my temple. “I think I'm losing it,” I said to Linda.

Cass would have laughed this statement off in a girlfriendly way and offered to buy me a drink. Linda cast grave eyes on me. “Stress is dangerous to your health. Deadly even.”

Great, now I was killing myself. I did feel like a physical and mental mess. I desperately needed a hot spring weekend. Ten Thousand Waves, a Japanese-­themed spa a few miles outside town, would certainly work. So would Ojo Caliente, a mineral spring nestled under red-­rock cliffs. I could imagine the stress melting away in the hot waters. Except stress sprang straight back when I thought about the time and money I'd need for a relaxing soak. I didn't have enough of either, especially if I decided to move.

I reached for a scone, only to have my hand batted away.

Flori snatched away the scone plate and hid it under a napkin. “Shhh . . . we won't tell Addie, but even the raccoons shouldn't eat these.” She looked over her shoulder. “She's working on a second batch. I'm going to watch that she doesn't burn this round.”

“Good luck,” I said, my mood as dark as the scones.

Flori plunked down at the table. “I know. What a day. Addie and her scones are keeping me occupied, but I can barely stand the waiting. I hate not knowing. I want that awful man caught!”

I squeezed her hand sympathetically. If this mess of unknowing was bad for me, I knew it had to be ten times worse for Flori, who couldn't take suspense in any form.

At a nearby table, protected by
DO
NOT
TOUCH OR EAT
signs, her Day of the Dead bread cooled on wire racks. She'd outdone herself. The breads featured cranial curves and bulging teeth. An egg wash had turned them golden and glossy, and the sweet scents of anise, orange zest, and butter triumphed over the odor of burned scones.

“They're winners,” I said, smiling at my elderly friend.

She pushed up her glasses and shrugged. “If they hold the contest.”

“What?” Linda and I demanded in unison. Then it hit me. With Broomer's death, the judging committee was down a member.

“Misty Gonzales, the organizer, is supposed to get back to all of us contestants,” Flori said. “They're debating whether it would be unseemly to continue without Broomer.”

“I'm sure that he would have wanted you to go on,” Linda said.

Flori wasn't buying the trite words of comfort. “I'm sure that he was in it for the publicity and bribes, dear. But we mustn't speak ill of the dead. Not on Día de los Muertos, especially.” She turned to me. “You should get some rest. And a shower.” The wrinkling of her nose made me suddenly conscious of my appearance. I reached up and felt grime in my hair and forehead. My clothes were crumpled, and although I'd removed the menthol patches from my ankle, a gummy, minty residue remained.

“I'll be back by the time of the judging,” I promised. “They'll hold the contest.”

“Whatever,” Flori said, sounding like my teenage daughter, with a similar fake nonchalance. “If Gabe lets me keep Victor's recipe box, I'll enter the Christmas cookie contest in Victor's name.”

As I got ready to go, she tried to convince me to shower at her place. I declined, citing a lack of clean clothes. “Besides, Tops is long gone by now,” I said. I wondered about his kitten, Hugo. Was he too on the lam? I hoped that Manny wouldn't be the one to apprehend Tops. Not only would his ego inflate, but he also wouldn't bother to save the tiny kitten.

Linda gave me a ride but declined to stop in. “I don't want to give Gabe the wrong idea that I'm hanging around to see him,” she fretted. “We can be friends, but never teenagers again.”

She dropped me off at the mailbox, leaving me in the awkward situation of hobbling down the driveway and encountering Gabe, forlornly removing a swath of police tape caught in the apple tree.

“Was that Linda?” he asked.

For his sake, I fibbed and said that she needed to help Flori with the bread contest.

He nodded. “Things will get better now that it's almost over.” A few wrinkled apples fell from the tree as he yanked. When he'd wadded up the tape, he turned to me. “Thank you again for helping me, and Victor too.”

“I don't want to move!” I blurted. I didn't know where this burst came from. Maybe I was under some psychedelic influence of Addie's charred scone smoke. Or Linda's deadly stress. “I mean, unless you want me and Celia to move or you'll be moving or—­”

Gabe didn't miss a beat. “I don't want to move either,” he said. “Don't worry. We'll start fresh around here. It'll be okay again.”

Later, I stood in the shower a long while, letting scalding water pelt my skull. A new life was what I kept saying I'd create for myself. I wished I knew what that would be.

After the shower, I faced a more short-­term dilemma of what to do. I had a few hours to spare before the bread contest, if it happened at all. Celia was at school, followed by an after-­school art program. Out the back window, I could see the destroyed fence. I yearned to push the rubble onto Broomer's side, but the property line was strewn with yellow police tape. Manny's doing, I bet. He loved to go overboard with caution tape, just like his version of home repair involved wads of duct tape.

I drew the curtain and tried not to think about the garden destruction. The best way I knew to do that was to read a good book. Foot elevated, a bag of pretzels by my side, I lay on the couch, savoring a British cottage mystery with an elderly sleuth who would have made Flori proud.

I was caught up in a critical scene when a sound distracted me. I put the book down and listened. There was silence and then a high-­pitched chirp, like a baby bird or a coyote pup singing for its mother. I pulled a throw blanket around my shoulder and tried to concentrate on my book.

I couldn't. The cry sounded increasingly plaintive. I'd feel reassured to discover a lonely cowbird, I told myself, and padded to the front door in my slippers.

Outside, a few crows congregated in the trees, hunching and dipping their heads. If it was a baby bird, the little creature would be in trouble. I scanned the mosaic of earth tones. Golden grasses waved against apache plume, an ethereal shrub topped with feathery puffs. Smooth rocks lined a cactus patch, and old orchard trees stood amidst carpets of dark leaves and wrinkling fruit. I was about to go back inside when I heard the cry again. I refocused my eyes farther in the distance and that's when I saw the bit of buff-­colored fluff.

“Hugo? Kitty?” At the sound of my calls, the little creature turned and waddled forward a few steps, only to stumble over a branch. He seemed stuck and was meowing louder. Still in my slippers, I rushed out, gushing kitten talk as I went. “It's okay, sweet baby boy. You're okay.”

The kitten purred as loudly as a food processor when I reached him. “It's okay,” I told him again, rubbing his fuzzy head. “Let's get you unstuck.” He wore a thick collar with dog bones printed on it. The collar had looped around a branch and was keeping him pinned in place. Gently, I cupped the kitten's belly.

“Poor guy. What's this?” The kitten responded with more high-­pitched mews as I removed the collar and the plastic sandwich bag stuck to it. Inside, the bag held a scrap of paper with the scrawled words,
Please take care of Hugo. He's yours.
Hugo purred.

For a moment I forgot my bad feelings toward Tops. He loved his kitten and turned him loose to find a better home. That, if only that, was kind of him. I cuddled the vibrating fur ball close to my neck, vowing that I wouldn't let infatuation overpower reason. Celia and I would have to discuss finances and the long-­term commitment of a cat. Hugo's tiny paw reached out for my chin.
Who was I kidding?
I was already smitten with him.

I carried him inside, taking him immediately to the blanket on the couch and mentally listing the accessories he'd need. Litter box, food, toys, a new collar, a catnip plant.

“He likes milk. Lactose-­free, only 'cause he's a cat.”

My shriek sent Hugo's claws into my neck. The pricks of pain were the least of my worries. A hulking figure stood in my entryway. Tops shut the door, locking us both inside.

 

Chapter 32

O
kay,” I said. “Lactose-free. Got it. Thanks, Tops, we'll be fine now.” Electric jolts prickled through my head as I tried to remember where I'd left my phone. The kitchen, or possibly the bedroom or lodged in my messy purse.

“Okay, 'bye now,” I said shakily, earning a scowl from my uninvited guest. His back was against the doorknob and there was no other door. He didn't look ready to go.

“He doesn't like dog food,” Tops said. “He's not a dog. And he won't eat hot dogs or chile. If you can nab a rotisserie chicken, he loves that.” His eyes darted from side to side. Twigs stuck in his beard and he wore several sets of clothes. When he moved, I caught sight of a knife handle on his belt.

I nodded so he wouldn't hear the quaver hovering in my throat. I was afraid that if I opened my mouth, I'd bleat like the stranded kitten.

“He likes you. I knew he would.” Tops took a giant step forward. I took several faltering steps backward and ended up knocking myself down onto the couch. Hugo crawled off my shoulder and onto the top cushion, where he scampered around happily.

Tops stood over me, his hand on the carved blade of the knife. He smelled of wood smoke and tobacco and was becoming more agitated, talking about helicopters and surveillance. I squished back into the couch as his voice turned to an angry monotone. I had to bring him back to reality, or something more calming.

“Tuna fish!” I exclaimed.

He stopped mid-­rant and frowned at me.

“Tuna,” I said again, more calmly. “I have some in the kitchen. I bet Hugo loves tuna.”

I forced myself to move slowly off the couch and to the kitchen. Every molecule in my body told me to sprint for the door, but in the confined space, I doubted my chances. Maybe, just maybe, I'd left my phone in the kitchen.

Tops claimed not to know about Hugo's feelings for tuna. I bet he knew full well, unless he hadn't yet opened the can he stole from Gabe. I forced myself to maintain happy chatter about kitten-­friendly foods as I searched the crammed pantry, terrified that we'd run out of tuna. “Turkey, I bet he loves that. We'll have a nice Thanksgiving turkey in a few weeks, won't we, Hugo?”

The little guy wove around our feet, purring and mewing. I hauled cans from the broom closet that served as my pantry. When I got to cartons of premade mac-­and-­cheese, Celia's favorite, Tops perked up.

“I like those.”

“Take them!” I practically shouted. Lowering my voice, I said, “Ah, tuna. You'll love this, Hugo. I'll get a bowl, and Tops if you'll open the can . . .” I held it out to Tops and plopped the opener by the sink. In my ideal scheme, he'd take the can to the sink, whereupon I would bolt for the door and run to summon help. I prayed that I could run fast enough and that Gabe was home and not napping with his ear plugs and white noise machine.

My hopes were soon dashed. Tops leaned against the kitchen door and produced a can opener from one of his many pockets. After a few cranks, he removed the lid and then offered the entire can to Hugo.

“Here you go, little buddy,” he said. His voice was softer now and he sounded like the elderly man that he was. “You like that don't you?” He grinned at me, lines creasing his weathered face. “You'll be all right together. I gotta go. ­People have seen me. They're watchin' me.”

I agreed heartily with this plan. “Yes, you should go. Right now. Fast. I'll take the very best care of Hugo.”

He patted the kitten, his big hand covering its entire body. “I've gotta go, buddy,” he said again, in such a sad voice that it tugged at my heart. I followed him to the front door, ready to bolt it as soon as he crossed the threshold.

He stopped in the door frame, giving the sky a suspicious scan. “Looks clear.”

“Yep, looks good. Good time to go.” I wanted to give him a good firm push. He was looking in the direction of Victor's house. “What's that?” He turned to me, face aflame with rage. “Look at that! Spies! They're back!”

Through the sliver of space not blocked by Tops, I spotted a flash of gold near Victor's back door. “It's probably his brother,” I said, then added, “or the police.” I hoped Tops would take this as his cue to flee.

“No. It's
her
!” Tops practically spat out the words. “She did a bad thing! She's a spy. They're after Victor!” He took off with surprising speed toward the main house.

I'd been counting the seconds until I could lock myself in and call the cops. Now his words stopped me.
Spies after Victor? A bad thing?
What did he mean? I couldn't help myself. I too hurried toward Victor's house.

A woman's scream spurred me from a limping shuffle to a full-­out run. Jay-­Jay stood by the back door, brandishing a potted cactus, thorny side pointed outward. Other pots were upturned and saints that had been hanging by the doorway lay on the flagstone.

Tops was backing Jay-­Jay into a corner, literally. By the time I reached them, she was wedged in the door frame with only the spiny cactus separating her from Tops.

“Help me!” she yelled when she saw me. “This maniac is attacking me!”

Tops turned to me, his eyes as wild as his hair. “She stole. She stole Victor's key.” He extended a baseball-­mitt-­sized hand toward Jay-­Jay's throat. “Give it back,” he growled.

Jay-­Jay waved the cactus and screamed for me to do something. “Call the police! Don't just stand there!”

Standing here was about all I could do, unless I ran back to the casita to find my phone. It was a tempting move, but I couldn't leave Jay-­Jay. I remembered the strength of Tops's hands around my neck, and he hadn't even been mad then, only worried that I'd wake a kitten.

I summoned the last crumbs of my inner courage and jumped between Tops and the cactus. A spine poked my shoulder blade. “No!” I commanded. Tops's eyes flashed with anger as he looked down at me. I fought to sound calm. “No,” I repeated, in the best normal voice I could muster. “Hugo will be worried, Tops. Leave the nice lady alone.”

Confusion replaced rage on his face, if only for a moment. “She's not nice. Not nice. Not like you.”

I supposed I should have felt flattered. I was terrified. “It's okay, Tops,” I said. “This woman is Victor's ex-­wife.”

“No, no!” he stuttered.

I knew how he felt. How Victor could ever have married Jay-­Jay was incomprehensible to me too.

“That's right!” Jay-­Jay crowed from behind me, scraping more spines across my back. “And I'll inherit this house so this key is mine!”

Tops wobbled in confusion. Not for long, though. His bellow echoed across the little valley as he pushed me aside, reached through the cactus and tore something from Jay-­Jay's hand. He yelled again as he raised his fist. A few spines stuck to his knuckles. He plucked them off as he backed away, and then he took off again, running up the driveway to the road.

Jay-­Jay cursed. “You let him get away! He stole my key!”

Talk about gratitude
. Here I'd saved her from possible strangulation, and she was complaining about the strangler getting away? I informed Jay-­Jay that I was calling the police and then stormed back to my house, slamming the door behind me. Hugo jumped off the couch, his tiny tail poofed and a ridge rising on his back.

“Oh, I'm sorry, baby,” I told him, cuddling his warm body up against my heart as I searched the house for the phone. As I did, I replayed Tops's muddled words.
She did a bad thing.
Did Tops witness the crime? What if Jay-­Jay was the actual killer? I found the phone under the pile of yesterday's clothes and punched in numbers with trembling fingers. I was certain that I'd been in the presence of a murderer. I just didn't know if it was Jay-­Jay or Tops, or both.

I did know who I wanted to call first, however.

Jake answered on the first ring. I sped through an explanation without stopping for breath.

“I'm at Kewa Station,” he said, naming the train station at the former Santo Domingo Pueblo, now known by its original name, Kewa. “I heard that Tops had hit the rails. Guess that was wrong. I'll be there in half an hour.”

“Be careful!” I said, before thinking how overly concerned this might sound.

“You be careful too,” he said. “Watch out for Jay-­Jay. Don't let anyone in until the police arrive.”

Y
oung patrolmen I didn't know arrived first, for which I was grateful. Bunny came a few minutes later. “They'll find him,” she said, standing in my living room and making the room seem smaller. The eerie bays of bloodhounds floated down the creek. “The dogs are just a little confused right now because his scent's all over this place.”

I shuddered at the thought. Hugo was even more upset. His tail poofed with each canine howl and he climbed up into my hair. I supposed that I looked a little like a crazy cat lady when Jake arrived.

“Is that a tail over your ear?” he asked.

I explained how I came by Hugo, who resisted any attempts to extract him for introductions.

“Cute,” Jake said, reaching up to pet Hugo's haunches before turning back to lawyer mode with Bunny. “My client has special needs,” he said. “He suffers from dementia. You are right to try to locate him, but you'll find that he's an innocent man, a valuable witness who can help you with your case.”

Bunny made a sniffing sound, suggesting cat allergies or skepticism. “He's a suspect.” She turned her attention to her radio. “Got him?” she said. “Got it. Be there in two minutes.”

“But wait,” I said, stepping in front of the door, Tops-­style. “What about Jay-­Jay? She was trespassing again. She tried to steal Victor's key and Tops said that she did something bad.”

Bunny almost looked sympathetic. Or maybe she was simply too tired to look stern. “From what you've told us, Tops also imagines black helicopters and steals food. Ms. Jantrell does have a will establishing her as a potential inheritor, pending probate and any other newer, valid wills.” She paused for a moment. “However, we will continue to search for the recent will that your neighbor Dalia and her husband witnessed and signed. And Ms. Jantrell's been warned not to enter the property until probate clears. That will be some time. In the meantime, Rita, you might want to make plans to move. Just in case.”

With that, she strode off, Jake following as keen as a well-­dressed bloodhound behind her.

I stewed over Bunny's words. I didn't want to move, but maybe I would if Jay-­Jay took over the property. Maybe she'd kick me out, regardless of what I wanted. We had to find Victor's new will.

Flori would know what to do. Then it struck me. In all the chaos, I'd forgotten about her bread contest. I managed to extract Hugo from my hair. He cried and scampered after me when I put him on the couch in a nest of blankets. “Okay,” I said, swaddling him firmly in a scarf against my chest. “You can come, but you're sticking close to me.” He purred with a contentment I wished I felt.