Bread of the Dead: A Santa Fe Cafe Mystery (5 page)

“Open up!” Manny yelled in his cop voice.

I took a deep breath, hoping to squelch my own emotions. Whatever Manny said, I was done arguing with him, I told myself. We were done.

“Hold on,” I said, unlatching the heavy oak door. Manny pushed past, followed by his partner, Bunny, who politely but belatedly asked if they could come in.

I agreed, also politely, although I wished the invitation could exclude Manny. He stood in the entryway/living room, fingers looped around his weapons belt, legs apart in what I imagined was his movie-­cop pose. Manny is very conscious of his looks, and there's no denying that he's good-­looking. He works out, wears trim shirts tight across his muscular chest, and sets his shaver high to achieve an intentional scruff. If cast in a soap opera, he'd be the guy you know the heroine shouldn't fall for but does, taken in not only by his looks but his charm. Although I'd seen little of it since the divorce, Manny can be truly charming. Too charming, when it came to other women. Manny also thinks he's irresistible. That's what probably upset him most about our divorce: that I'd been the one to ask for it. Like me, he was probably also a little sad, not that he'd ever admit it.

He snorted, scanning the room. “Small place you've got here, Rita. What is this, a converted garage?”

“Nice
vigas
,” Bunny said, towering behind my ex.

That's another one of Manny's problems. Height insecurity. He and Tom Cruise could wear the same pants.

“Thank you, Bunny,” I said, ignoring Manny. “Would you like a cookie?”

She patted the flat front of her jacket. “Can't, I'm in training. Listen, Rita, we have to talk to you about what you saw.”

Manny grumbled that I wouldn't be able to tell them anything useful.

Bunny also ignored him. She had that serious cop look on, the one that mingles mad and suspicious. Bunny looks this way a lot.

“We're exhausted.” I gestured toward Celia. She sat in the kitchen, still ostensibly messing with her phone. A pile of wadded-­up Kleenex lay beside her. “Can't I make a statement tomorrow? I'll come in after work, at the start of your shift.”

Bunny shrugged. “That's fine. Looks like there's not much to investigate here. The medical examiner will be able to tell us definitively.”

I knew what she wasn't saying directly. It looked like suicide. It likely was suicide. Rightfully or not, I mentally berated myself again.
If only I'd stayed to check on Victor. If only I'd had time to ask what was bothering him when we were drinking cocoa.

Bunny and I set an appointment for three the next day for what she called “routine follow-­through.”

“It's not a closed case yet,” Manny said, in the contrarian attitude he'd taken throughout our divorce. “Celia's coming home with me. If there was any funny business involved, I don't want her alone here tonight.”

“She's not alone, Manny. I'm here.”

“You, the woman who breaks in and terrifies some guy sleeping? Poor judgment, Rita.” He shook his head as if disappointed in me and started for the kitchen.

“I didn't break in,” I protested. “The door was open.” I stepped in front of him, hands on my hips. “That's something you should be investigating. Along with a fight the brothers had with their neighbor tonight.”

Manny smiled. “We already know about that. Gabriel mentioned the disagreement. Now let me talk to my daughter.”

I held my ground. “You can talk, but you can't take her tonight. That is not part of our custody agreement.”

“Our agreement is that the terms can change in exceptional cases and Celia can decide where she wants to go at any time. She discovers a dead guy? That's exceptional, Rita. She needs to be home.” He pushed by me.

“This
is
her home,” I sputtered, but he was already in the kitchen, talking to Celia.

“Honey,” I said, joining them at the table. “There's no need to worry about staying here. We're perfectly safe, but if you're concerned, we can go over to Flori's.”

My daughter twisted her black-­straw hair. “Yeah, whatever,” she said, putting up a stoic face in front of her dad. “Sure, maybe I'll go home for the night. Sorry, Mom.”

She'd said sorry, but her words stung. Home. Did she not think of this as her home too? She was a kid, I reminded myself. A kid from a broken home.

I opened my mouth to protest, but thought better of it. Celia was hurting. She didn't need to see me and Manny squabbling on top of her pain. I hugged my daughter, telling her that I'd call the school in the morning if she wanted the day off. She shrugged, declined, and left.

Manny dropped a parting shot. “Stay out of this case,” he growled. “I'm done with your snooping.”

I'd snoop if I wanted to, I thought, but held in my retort. Hadn't I told myself I was through? Through with sniping at Manny and through with sleuthing. What was there to discover anyway? That I'd missed signs of a friend's agony? Or maybe there was more. I pushed this thought aside as I watched the police cruiser pull away, followed by the bouncing Jeep driven by cool Ariel. Was she going home with Manny too? I felt very alone. Then another thought struck me. Celia had driven back with Ariel. I had no idea where my car was.

 

Chapter 5

T
he driver at Pacho's Pickup, open twenty-­four hours, sounded sleepier than I did. “You're calling for when, ma'am? Six-­thirty tonight?”

No, I explained to the groggy voice on the other end of the line. I hoped for a ride twenty-­five minutes from now, which would still make me late for breakfast prep at Tres Amigas. A taxi was an extravagance, but I didn't want to plod across town in the dark. Meanwhile, my bicycle had a broken gear shifter, my aged Subaru hadn't magically appeared, and it was too early to roust a neighbor.

As I waited, I tried to focus on lesser worries, like where Celia had left my car and what she'd been doing. I hadn't questioned her about the hint of alcohol on her breath, not with the bigger trauma to worry about. It was good that she got a ride, I told myself. That was responsible, if you could call any part of underage drinking responsible. And where did cool Ariel come into the picture? Was my teen daughter out drinking with my ex-­husband's young girlfriend?

To funnel anxious energy, I made notes. I stuck a yellow sticky tab on the back of my hand, a reminder to pick up milk, nonrotted fruit, and food in general, so that Celia and I wouldn't live on café leftovers. Other notes involved calling Celia's school, calling Celia herself, and finding the car. I fantasized about sticking a GPS tracker on the car once I found it, and another on Celia's backpack. If she ever found out about my GPS fantasies, I would definitely be an uncool mom.

By the time Pacho's Pickup beeped in the driveway, yellow tabs fanned across my hand. I tore them off in a sticky mass, stuffed them in my coat pocket, and hurried up to an old-­model sedan painted a sparkly purple.

The young taxi driver raised his chin in the direction of the house. “What's with all that police tape?”

“An accident,” I said, not feeling up for chitchat about this or any other topic. I sank into the white leather seat to avoid his gaze in the rearview mirror.

“Looks like more than an accident to me,” he said. Mercifully, he tuned the radio to bouncy borderlands music so I didn't feel the need to say more.

As we pulled out onto pretty Upper Canyon Road, I craned my head and stared back at the police tape sprawled across Victor's garden. The driver was right. This wasn't any accident. It was far worse. It was intentional, an act designed to end a precious life. I thought of Victor, preparing to welcome back the spirits, setting out treats for their return. Had he decided to join them early? Had Dalia sensed a destructive vibe the rest of us missed? No. I couldn't believe it. He might have been upset by Broomer, but the Victor I knew would work for compromise. Most of all, he'd never abandon his beloved arts workshops and the kids he helped. There had to be more to the story, more to Victor's suicide. The landscape outside the taxi window blurred and my mind swirled, dancing around questions that had haunted my restless sleep.
What if this wasn't suicide? What if it was murder?

T
he cab sped across town, weaving down side streets and surging on the mostly deserted main drags. To save my nerves and a bit of money, I asked the driver to let me out at the nearest corner.

“You be careful, ma'am. You know, with all that police tape around your place and whatnot,” he said, after I tipped him generously for the early morning pickup. “And call Pacho's Pickup anytime. Ask for me, Pacho.”

He swung into a U-­turn and sped off in a flash of purple.

I zipped my coat to my chin to fend off the chill and hurried up the block, past adobe homes turned into commercial buildings, including a baby clothes boutique, a Western-­wear shop, and Jake's law office. Tres Amigas Café commanded a prime corner spot at the end of the street. The little café might look modest from the outside, with its squat figure and reddish adobe coating. Inside, however, it was an extravagance of colorful artwork, delicious scents, and, most of all, warmth. Over four decades ago Flori and two friends—­one younger and the other much older—­started the café and worked together as the three
amigas
. Eventually her business partners retired. Flori could have retired as well. Instead, she placed an ad for an
amiga
who could cook, and I lucked out. Manny had been skeptical that a New Mexico newbie like me could hack it. An outsider could never master the nuances of chile sauces, he contended, let alone proper pronunciations of local delicacies. The learning curve was steep, I'll admit. But it was also thrilling to learn from a culinary master like Flori. Most of all, though, I was grateful for her friendship and all the new friends I'd made at the café.

I let myself in the back door and followed the spicy, earthy aroma of roasted chiles through to the kitchen. Flori stood by the sink, peeling and seeding dark green poblano peppers, the star of our popular chiles rellenos breakfast plate. Beside her was her eldest daughter, Linda, her dark hair wrapped in a net and her hands protected in clear plastic gloves.

As soon as she saw me, Linda peeled off the gloves and rushed to envelop me in a wordless hug.

Flori shot me a frown. “What are you doing here?” she demanded, after I released myself from Linda's comforting embrace. “You should be home in bed.”

She sounded stern, a tone that meant she was worried. Or mad, or mildly irritated, or unsuccessfully attempting sarcasm.

“You heard?” I asked, knowing full well that of course she'd heard. Why else would Linda be here? She usually spent mornings in her own kitchen, steaming vats of tamales for the lunchtime food cart she ran on the Plaza. And why else would Flori want me home in bed instead of teasing me about sleeping late? She probably heard as soon as the police call went out. The keystone of her gossip network was a ninety-­year-­old wheelchair-­bound man with a police scanner. He had chronic insomnia and spread news faster than high-­speed Internet.

“Mom heard last night from Mr. Hoffman,” Linda explained, naming police-­scanner guy as she pulled on a fresh pair of gloves. “She called me right away so I could come in and help. Poor, dear Victor.”

Beside her, Flori crossed herself with a char-­blackened chile. “Victor gone . . . I truly
don't
believe it,” she said, her stern tone cracking.

I could hardly believe it myself and I'd been there. Flori and Linda seemed to understand that I wasn't ready to talk yet. They recalled happy memories of Victor as we worked.

Flori managed a chuckle, recounting how he'd led her seniors' social group in a finger-­painting class. “Finger-­painting, at our age! He was right, though. It was such fun.” Their tales gradually traced his life backward, reaching into Linda's youth. All the stories touched on Victor's kindness and gentle, artistic spirit.

“And that time he rescued me and my girlfriends when we got stranded out in the Pecos Wilderness . . . remember that, Mama?” Linda said. “My car was stuck in all that mud and I called Gabriel, but Victor arrived in a borrowed tow truck. Pulled me right out and all the way home.”

Flori smiled. “I remember you girls coming back from that cabin, covered head to toe in muck. That seems like yesterday to me. You were so young.”

“I was nearly twenty by then, Mama. An adult,” Linda gently retorted.

Linda, at sixty, sometimes sounded like a defiant teen when talking to her mother. I tried to imagine myself and Celia at their ages. Hopefully we wouldn't still be arguing about car sharing and curfews. I checked my watch. Celia should be on her way to school. She'd answered her phone with a sigh this morning, followed by more sighs to report that
of course
she was okay and
of course
she was going to classes. “Why wouldn't I, Mom?” she'd asked, although we both knew why.

Flori reminisced about Victor, Gabe, and their little sister Teresa as kids as we formed a pepper assembly line. “Their mother loved those boys,” she said. “And Victor, he was always such a protective big brother to Gabe and Teresa.”

She handed skinned and deseeded chiles to Linda and me. For several minutes we fell silent, concentrating on the methodical work. First, the chiles are stuffed with shredded cheeses, a mixture of Monterey Jack, cheddar, and a fresh farm cheese that becomes wonderfully gooey when heated. Right before serving, the bundle is dipped in a batter and fried. Most cooks use a simple flour and egg batter and drop their peppers in a deep fryer. We pan fry ours in a soufflélike blanket, producing amazingly fluffy chiles rellenos that have won Flori awards and sparked jealousy among her competitors.

I love the cheesy chiles for any meal, but especially for breakfast, when we drape them in green chile sauce and top them with an egg, sunny-­side up or over medium. On the side we serve saucy pinto beans, roasted tomato salsa, and a dollop of sour cream. My stomach rumbled. If we finished the prep before the breakfast rush, I vowed to make myself a plate.

“So?” Flori said, after we'd tucked the peppers in the fridge to await frying. “How are you doing, Rita?”

I was preparing the dry ingredients for our blue corn waffle batter, swirling in the key ingredient: purplish cornmeal. “I have the dry and wet waffle mixes ready,” I said, my mind engaged in its own swirl. “And I'll add the waffles to the specials board.”

Flori put down the knife she'd been using to dice tomatoes, peppers, and onions into the fresh salsa we served with our savory breakfast dishes.

“I mean about Victor,” she said, concern etching into the wrinkles of her apple-­doll face. “You've been awfully quiet about what you saw. You want to talk?”

I fluffed the blue cornmeal mixture again before answering. “I think I'm still in shock,” I admitted. “I know that Victor's gone, but I can't get my mind around it. You know I visited with him last night?”

“I know,” Flori said quietly, resuming her beheading of tomatoes.

Her gossip network was good, but how did they know about my activities? Had the elderly guy with the police scanner upgraded to satellite surveillance? I almost didn't want to know. I asked anyway.

She shrugged. “No. No spy satellites, but Bill is awfully interested in personal drones. My friend Marie told me. Her cousin was one of the EMT first responders. He overheard the police talking to Gabriel, who said that you were visiting Victor last night right before he died. The EMT cousin saw you getting kicked out of the scene too.” She gave me a look of pure pride. “Good job getting in there.”

Linda frowned. Linda is a worrier. She obeys the rules and frets about safety and looks four times before she crosses the street, all probably apt responses to growing up with Flori's hijinks. In this case, I agreed with her. What had I accomplished other than terrifying Gabriel and upsetting my already distraught daughter?

When I told Flori this, she waved away my worries. “Nonsense,” she said. “You had to check,
cariño
. What if someone else had been hurt? You had to go in there. Isn't that right, Linda?”

Linda didn't look like she agreed entirely, although she tactfully switched the subject. “Gabriel's door was open? That's so dangerous. Who does that in these times? Anybody could walk right in . . .” She eyed me, an anybody who had walked right in.

Flori continued to guillotine tomatoes, discarding their pulp and seeds before slicing and dicing them faster than any food processor. “I'm mad and sad at the same time,” she said. “Victor was my friend and a good Catholic too. We sat together at mass last Sunday and then visited Our Lady of Peace. I wish I'd known he was feeling so sad. I wonder if he told Our Lady?”

I could picture them in front of the seventeenth-­century statue of Mary, also known as La Conquistadora for her time among the early Spanish colonists. Although not Catholic, I also occasionally visited her chapel to enjoy its peaceful beauty and admire her seasonally changing outfits, selected from her sacred wardrobe of over two hundred items. I thought of the sticky-­note reminders I'd written earlier. I had one to add—­not that I was likely to forget.

“We should go to the cathedral later and light some candles,” I said, my voice starting to shake with emotion.

“We'll buy the big candles at the gift shop,” Flori agreed, emotion cracking through her stern tone too. “No twenty-­five-­cent ones for Victor. And I don't care what the Church says about . . . well . . . about taking one's own life, if that's what actually happened. He's in heaven no matter what, in my book.”

“Mine too,” I agreed, as did Linda, who sniffled her way out to the dining room.

Flori and I chopped mounds of onions as an excuse for teary eyes. She commandeered some of the onions for her stew pot. “Chorizo and corn chowder for the soup of the day,” she said, before starting up her questioning again. “So what did you and Victor talk about?”

“That's the thing . . .” I'd replayed the conversation in my mind for hours, trying to come up with any clue or hint in his words. “He told me all about his Day of the Dead altar. He showed me pictures of his ancestors and talked about the special food he was going to put out.”