Cinco de Mayhem (13 page)

T
wo hours later the room looked like one of Flori's piñatas had exploded out sticky notes. Green, the sparsest color, marked items to keep, including the love seat, a Navajo rug, and a sideboard that Georgio deemed rustic but sublime. Pink meant artwork that could fill in any remaining space in the specialty storage facility. Yellow indicated items for the regular storage units Teresa had reserved. Blue was for donation.

“I can't believe how much we've done,” I said, coming out of the kitchen.

Silence greeted me in the living room. Georgio had once again slipped away. I found him in Victor's bedroom, standing nose-to-brushstroke with a gilt-framed painting above Victor's nightstand.

“Ah . . .” he exhaled in apparent bliss. “Worth the wait, the tease. Of course, I find it here, in the room of seduction.”

Loath to join him in a room of seduction, I squinted at the painting from the doorway. An angel, I guessed the Archangel Michael, stood above a writhing serpent, sword raised. Cherub heads ringed the scene. One reminded me of Flori's creepy mariachi mannequin.

“So that's it?” I asked. “Teresa said if the painting looks okay, send her your offer.” I stepped closer, wondering what made the work special.

“More than okay,” Georgio said, reaching over to grab my arm and pull me closer. He looped our elbows and leaned in. My eyes watered again, this time from Georgio's cough-syrupy cologne. I stiffened and tried to inch away, but he leaned closer. “The brush strokes, they express the passion of the artist, the intensity. Do you see?”

I didn't. I was wondering how to politely extricate myself when a noise made me jump. Still stuck to Georgio, I twisted to find Celia standing in the doorway, scowling.

“Mom,” she said, her voice dripping disgust. “What's going on?”

I wrenched myself free. “Honey, this is Jake's client Mr. Andre. He's hoping to buy this . . . er . . . lovely painting.”

My daughter snorted. “I didn't mean with
him
or
that.
What's with the living room? What are all those sticky notes by Victor's stuff? You're not dumping more of his things, are you?”

“We're not dumping,” I said. “A lot's destined for storage. Teresa's arriving sooner than I thought, and she wants a neutral look.”

Celia was already stomping down the hallway. “Neutral sucks!”

“Pizza night?” I called after her. The stomps stopped, and for a moment I thought my lure had worked. I caught up with Celia at the front door.

She twisted a lock of already tangled hair. “Yeah, about tonight, I'm meeting some friends for an art thing. Can I stay at Dad's after? It's closer.”

It was, also, less regulated in terms of Celia's curfew. I hesitated. “What friends? And aren't you at your Dad's this weekend?”

A look darker than thunder clouds over the desert brewed on Celia's face. “The art thing's at
school
, Mom. All sorts of people will be there.”

I caved. If clearing out Victor's house was traumatic for me, it was even more so for Celia, for whom Victor was both a friend and artistic mentor. She needed some space. “Okay, honey. Text me when you get to your dad's, though, and let him know you're coming. I'll be working here for a while.”

Her glare focused over my shoulder. From the wave of cough-syrup cologne, I could guess who she was looking at. “Yeah, right. Have fun with that, Mom.”

“Kids,” Georgio said, coming to stand beside me after Celia had banged out the door. “They do not handle changes well.” He took me by both arms and kissed my cheeks before I had a chance to evade. “Take good care of my painting, Ms. Lafitte.”

I stood on Victor's porch, watching until Georgio roared out of sight. Kids weren't the only ones who hated change. I didn't like it either.

A
fter Georgio left, I went back inside and wandered among the sticky notes. The guy had creeped me out, but he'd been company. By myself, the house felt too lonely. There was something else too. I kept checking behind me and peering out the windows, feeling that someone was there, that I was being watched. My New Age neighbor Dalia would say that Victor's spirit lingered. But Victor's spirit would have been a calming, friendly force, not an unsettling one. As the sun sank and the garden outside dipped into shade, I locked up Victor's place and headed for my cozy casita.

Hugo flopped at my feet when I stepped inside. “I know, what a day,” I told him, not caring that I was the type of woman who vented to felines. I not only vented, I carried on whole conversations with Hugo. He rolled onto his back, curling his paws and daring me to touch his yellow-spotted
belly fur. I couldn't resist, even though I knew needle-sharp claws would grab my hand.

“Yeah, I wish Celia was home to play with you.” I carefully extracted my hand, wishing that Celia was home to eat dinner with me too.

Sometimes I revel in time alone. I lounge around the house in sweatpants, flipping through cookbooks and sipping wine or hot cocoa, depending on the season, time of day, and level of decadence. I make meals of cheese and crackers. Any cheese will do, although only when I'm alone will I secretly dip into Celia's stock of jarred nacho cheese dip. I felt the siren's call of nacho cheese, but I didn't feel like reveling.

I checked the freezer and confirmed my earlier fear. No ice cream. The fridge was similarly disappointing since I'd been holding off shopping until I settled on my date menu. I pushed around jars of condiments, hoping to find a lost pudding cup. The shuffling only unearthed older condiment options. How could two females and a cat possess five types of mustard? The hydrator similarly brought no joy. Limp carrots lay next to a mushy lime and the half an acorn squash I meant to do something with. I was a shame to my profession, I thought, throwing out the lime. The squash again failed to speak to me.

“No treats, Hugo,” I informed my feline friend, who was again showing me his round belly. “Time for both of us to get on an exercise regime.”

Hugo mewed and ran off down the hallway, tail puffed in feigned terror. I agreed. The thought was enough to send me running for pizza. I retrieved the bowl of dough from the fridge, where it had
risen slowly during the day and now strained against the plastic wrap covering.

Pizza didn't have to be unhealthy. All a tasty pie needed was a simple sauce, some leaves from the spindly potted basil in my window, and a few rounds of mozzarella. Preheating the pizza stone for an hour seemed like too much effort. I could, however, make a personal-sized pizza in my cast iron frying pan. I'd heat the pan to smoking, slap down the dough and toppings, cook until the bottom was crispy, and then finish the pie off under the broiler for bubbly toppings.

I opened the pantry and eyed the cast iron skillet, buried under a pasta pot and several casserole dishes. Retrieving the pan seemed like too much work. The truth was, I didn't want pizza for one. Not tonight. Cass, I knew, was busy this week finishing a commission, personalized necklaces for a gaggle of bridesmaids. And Jake? I considered proposing a night out for preholiday margaritas and loaded nachos. Then I thought about his earlier call to Brigitte. What if he already had plans? Chickening out, I dialed a number that involved no romantic anxiety.

Flori answered on the first ring and complimented my sixth sense. “You knew I was about to call you, didn't you?”

“Ah, yeah, right,” I said, hating to discourage her sixth sense.

“Good, because I'm inviting you to dinner.”

A dinner invitation was exactly what I'd hoped for. Still, I hesitated. Mom's rules of etiquette, drilled into me since childhood, demanded that any invitation be met with an “Oh no, I couldn't
possibly impose” kind of refusal. The method came with risk, namely that the inviter followed similar rules, apologized for being a bother, and withdrew the offer. That was highly unlikely with Flori, but I wasn't about to take any chances.

I thanked her, adding, “This will be great. I'm all alone tonight. Celia's out with friends and wants to stay at her dad's later.”

“I know,” my elderly friend said, making me again wonder if she was indeed clairvoyant. Or if she had me bugged. She had surveillance equipment and knew how to use it.

She interrupted my paranoid ponderings. “Bernard picked me up from tai chi earlier and we cruised past the Plaza. Celia was down there with some skateboarders. I always thought I'd like skateboarding. In my day, girls didn't do that. I wonder if it's scary?”

I wasn't thinking of skateboarding. I was wondering if Celia had lied about her plans.

“Did you see a boy with orange hair?” I asked Flori.

“All sorts of hair colors in that group. I missed that trend too. I suppose I could be a blue-haired lady if I wanted.”

“Sure,” I said, my mind on Celia. “That'd be great,” I added just as absently. Should I call Celia and check in? She'd grumble that I didn't trust her. I did trust her . . . mostly.

Flori probably didn't need clairvoyance to read my thoughts. “Oh, she was just having fun, Rita. They were eating
frito
pies and hanging out like kids do. Don't worry and don't turn an old lady down. Come to dinner.”

Flori rarely played the “old lady” card. She must
really want company. I did too. I told her I'd be right over.

F
lori met me at the door of her quaint adobe home and ushered me inside.

“I'm so glad you came,” she said. “We have work to do after we eat.” She nodded toward the dining table. Her Taser sat next to a bowl of salsa. Binoculars rested in a basket that should have held chips.

Bernard waved to me from his recliner throne in the living room. I went in to say hi. On the muted TV, investigative reporter Milan Lujan once again stood on the Plaza.

“Mind if we turn up the volume?” I asked Bernard.

“Happy to,” he said with a chuckle. “That Milan's cute as a button.” He aimed a remote at the TV. The ancient remote was the size of my shoe and held together with electrical tape. The image on the small, old curved screen wavered, but I could see Milan clearly enough.

She looked straight into the camera and said, “More on our investigation into the death of the famed chef whose single name summed up his singular greatness: Napoleon. I'm here live tonight with Don Busco, an organizer trying to rebuild the food cart community. Mr. Busco, tell us about your efforts.”

Don towered over the reporter. He tipped his hat back and looped his thumbs under the front of his denim apron. “Well, Milan, we're making a real
effort to work together now. Look over yonder. Just this evening, we got a bunch of folks together.”

“For a memorial?” Milan asked.

Don's happy-campfire-cook composure wavered into vexation before being replaced by a wide smile. “For renewed life in our food cart community,” he said smoothly.

The camera panned out, showing the Plaza, golden in the light of the setting sun. Crystal was there, waving to the camera from her juice stand. There was a guy I didn't recognize selling tacos, the lady who made gourmet popcorn, and a familiar sleek silver cart with a blue-and-white awning. Crepe Empire.

“Looks fun,” Bernard commented from his recliner.

It did look fun, until the camera zoomed in on Crepe Empire. “Is that Brigitte?” I asked, sure that the blurry old TV was playing tricks with my eyes.

Flori, using her silent walking, had come up behind me. “That's her all right,” she said. “Oh dear . . .” The camera zoomed in as Brigitte attempted to flip a crepe as thick as a bloated pancake. The top part, underdone, splattered and part folded under the burned underside.

The cameraman, likely recognizing a culinary catastrophe, refocused on Milan's perfectly made-up face.

“Santa Fe police tell us that new details are emerging in the murder case,” Milan said. I wished that the camera would show Don. Would he have the nervous tics of a guilty man? Beads of sweat? Shaking hands? But no, when the picture included him a few moments later, he was nodding seriously and explaining the donation jar.
Ketchup, in a blood-splatter pattern, dotted the homemade sign proclaiming
Free Linda!

Bernard, Flori, and I groaned.

“One of our own is being unduly accused,” Don said, patting the jar.

“Our martyr!” Crystal yelled merrily, waving to the camera from her juice stand.

Don continued, “We all stand behind Linda Santiago of Tía Tamales, who has been unduly persecuted for her brave act of discovering Napoleon's body under her cart. An outsider, a random killer, that's who we believe is responsible,” Don said, speaking over the “Some of us!” correction lobbed over by Crystal.

“And why do you suspect an outsider?” Milan asked.

Don answered evasively. “I have my reasons,” he said. “The owner of that killer tamale cart, she's a good woman. Once she's cleared of health infractions, I'll proudly serve her tamales. All proceeds will go to clearing her name.”

“Free Linda!” Crystal exclaimed. A general chorus followed. “Free Linda!
Viva
Linda!”

Milan's smooth brow wrinkled in concern. “Passionate yet uncertain times here in the City Different. Was Chef Napoleon's killer a stranger, a colleague, or, as an anonymous source suggested yesterday, a person in a position of power in Santa Fe's own city government? We at News 6 at six will continue to probe this complicated story. Back to you in the newsroom, Todd.”

Todd turned to Isotopes baseball stats.

I turned to Flori. “Poor Linda. All this attention isn't helping her. What can we do?”

Flori didn't use her silent walk. She stomped back to the kitchen. “Find the real killer,” she said. “But first, we eat.”

Flori served up a feast of cilantro rice, pinto beans, and corn and piñon nut tamales, with salsas and sour cream on the side. I indulged in a second plump tamale, justifying it as vegetarian and thus healthy. Besides, my exercise regime started tomorrow. I needed the energy.

“I'm running tomorrow,” I announced, to make myself accountable.

“Running for what?” Bernard asked, befuddlement clear on his broad face. “From what?”

“She's in love, my dear,” Flori explained. “That's what young people do these days.”

“That's lovely, Rita,” Bernard said, still looking confused.

“I'm not in love,” I said. “I'm getting in better shape, that's all.”

“Rita heard that that tall, blond hottie Brigitte Voll was out dancing with Jake Strong the night of Napoleon's murder,” Flori said to her husband. To me, she said, “Yes, I heard all about that. I had to double-check her alibi, didn't I? All sorts of people said they saw her. Said she's quite a dancer.” Flori patted my hand. “Now, Rita, you have nothing to worry about. We all saw it right on News 6: the woman obviously can't cook and that's the way to a good man's heart. You might want to step up the romance a smidgen, though, dear. Bat your eyes when you serve that magic chocoflan.”

“That'll do it,” Bernard affirmed. He leaned up to kiss Flori on her wrinkled cheek. I couldn't help myself. I sighed. Theirs was the kind of romance I wanted. Sweet, forever, no worries, no jealousy.

I let them flirt while I thought about date-appropriate desserts. Chocoflan still seemed too brazen. Rich chocolate cake topped with flan
and
caramel? Maybe I could make just the cake part. Or the flan. But both? No, I decided. I didn't want to come off as desperate.

“Did you learn anything else about Gerald Jenkins Senior and Junior?” I asked Flori when she stopped making eyes at Bernard.

She'd heard all sorts of things, which she described as I helped her clear the table. None of them, not Gerald Senior's medal in high school archery or Junior's volunteering on an archeological expedition, tied directly into Napoleon's murder.

Flori produced a flan, minus the cake, from the refrigerator. “But I did learn something else sweet,” she said.

I waited as she soaked the bottom of the fluted pan in warm water to loosen the caramel, and then performed the delicate operation of turning the flan upside down. The custard slipped out, beautifully molded in a sunflower shape and draped in rich caramel sauce. She took the platter to the table.

“Don Busco was on the Plaza around the time of Napoleon's murder,” she proclaimed, setting the flan down with a flourish.

“Aha!” Bernard exclaimed, whether about the flan or Don, I couldn't tell. Bernard took charge of doling out the jiggling custard, kindly ladling extra caramel sauce on my serving.

I considered Flori's information. Don had already told me he was out and about that night. He'd even offered up Manny as one of his alibis, as I reminded Flori.