Cinco de Mayhem (14 page)

Flori pointed toward the end of the table where her spying equipment occupied two place settings. “Not merely nearby,” she clarified. “Joe Toya told Milly Schultz, who told Bill Hoffman's granddaughter, who told Bill that Don was lurking by the bandstand late Monday night.”

My head spun, trying to connect the gossip dots. As always, they connected to Bill Hoffman, the keystone of Flori's elder informant network. Bill, in his nineties, hasn't slept longer than two hours straight in decades, or so he claims. To while away the time, he tunes into the police scanner and chats on shortwave radio. His shortwave pals in the Maldives and Siberia probably knew more news from Santa Fe than I did.

Flori said that she'd called Joe to confirm. “He said he couldn't be sure of the exact time, except it was late. He was absolutely sure it was Don. I promised him five free breakfasts,” she said. “The code is ‘Informant Five.'”

“Great,” I muttered, knowing I'd forget this, as I did so many of Flori's coded freebies.

Flori, meanwhile, had moved on to the meat of her gossip. “Joe said that Don was standing by a tree in a dark spot a bit away from where Linda's cart was parked. Joe thought that Don might be feeling wobbly after too much beer, so he didn't go over.” She made a tsk-tsk sound that was seconded by Bernard. “When Joe saw all the police tape the next day, he thought about it some more. He speculated that maybe Don was hiding behind that tree, lurking, waiting.”

I thought about it too. “Don claimed he didn't get Linda's message asking him to check on her
cart until the next morning. But what if he did? What if he went to the Plaza and—”

Flori jumped in. “And he found Napoleon there, messing with Linda's property. He'd step in.”

“Self-defense,” Bernard said. “Or cart-defense.”

There hadn't been any obvious damage to Linda's cart, though, and our scenario depended on supposition and coincidence. “I hope this Joe guy tells the police more than he told you and Milly Whatshername.”

Flori and Bernard exchanged a look.

Bernard explained. “Joe won't be talking to the police. They don't get along.”

Flori added, “Joe's a nice man but he tends to steal cars. Can't help himself. He steals other things too. ATVs, fire trucks—”

“Mules,” Bernard said with a chuckle. “Remember that one he ‘acquired' out in Glorieta? And that riding mower he drove all the way to Española and the incident with the mechanical bull from the rodeo? Pretty much anything that moves, Joe will ‘borrow' it.”

“He has a problem,” Flori said. “Besides, Joe's a second cousin to Don. He wouldn't say anything against a relative. His mistake was telling Milly. That girl is such a gossip.”

Flori, queen of local gossip, started clearing the table. I rose to help her, my head anything but clear.

“If he is the killer, how do we catch him?” I muttered.

“Spying.” Flori held up a worn copy of the
Art of War
. She nodded to the end of the table and the surveillance paraphernalia. “Pick your spy weapon, Rita.”

T
he next morning as I gasped for air, I wished I hadn't eaten second helpings of tamale and flan. I also wished I'd listened to Hugo. He'd meowed sorrowfully when I rose before dawn and donned exercise clothes, telling myself it was the perfect morning for a jog. It was. The tender spring leaves wore jewels of dew. The air smelled fresh, and the sky promised another sunny day. Perfect for running, or for snoozing under a quilt and a feline, as Hugo had tried to tell me. Puffing down scenic Upper Canyon Road, I thought of Hugo and my warm, soft bed. I mostly thought about my coffeepot. How could I have run off without caffeine?

As bad as I felt physically, though, I was pretty darned pleased with myself. Brigitte had nothing on me. Well, except her tall, blond, Frenchness and command of numbers and dancing. I upped my pace down Canyon Road, panting past art
galleries and bronze statues. My route was lovely. Historic, artistic . . . and all downhill.

I realized the error in my downhill ways when I reached the loop road around Santa Fe's core, Paseo de Peralta. My return route would be all uphill. A slight grade, but definitely up.

I panted beside Peralta, considering my options. Hugo was fed. Celia was at Manny's. I could continue on to Tres Amigas. I kept a spare set of clothes in the storeroom in case of emergencies, like oil splatters or waitressing mishaps.

I hefted my foot onto a nearby stone wall. Stretching seemed like the real-runner thing to do and a good excuse to catch my breath. I was craning my head toward my knee, thinking that stretching was a literal pain, when a van and trailer bumped to a stop at the intersection. I recognized the cart immediately. Crepe Empire. Brigitte Voll rolled down the passenger window and leaned across. Her sunny
bonjour
squashed my initial flash of pettiness.

“Bonjour,”
I replied. Sometime during the stretch, my leg had stiffened. I hoisted it off the wall and hobbled, peg-leg fashion, over to Brigitte's van.

“Bravo!”
Brigitte exclaimed, as if crippling myself was a praiseworthy accomplishment. “I did not know you were a runner, Rita. We must train together someday. If I did not have the crepe cart, I would join you immediately.”

I silently thanked the cart and told Brigitte I was a newbie jogger, lest she get any wrong ideas. “I'm afraid I got a little too enthusiastic today,” I admitted. “I'll stick to my part of Upper Canyon Road next time. Where are you going so early?”

She was headed to the Plaza, she told me. “I want to claim my spot. I practiced making crepes for hours last night. I am ready! Don was so kind to invite me.”

Was Don being kind, or was he putting on a show of niceness to cover his tracks, like with his Free Linda campaign? I thought of the picture Flori's informant had painted. Don, at the scene the night of the murder. Lurking in the dark. Or taking a tipsy break by a tree. Should I warn Brigitte? She was chatting enthusiastically about crepes and how she had
absolutely known
she had an innate cooking skill in her. How she'd spoken with Napoleon's out-of-state business partner and he'd agreed to let her try her hand at running the crepe cart. How delighted she was.

She seemed so happy and excited. I hated to get her down. I also had no firm evidence.

“Just be careful,” I said. “There's still a murderer on the loose.”

She nodded, serious now. “You be careful too. Running alone can be dangerous. You should always carry a phone and maybe the chile spray.”

I didn't have pepper spray, a Taser, or, thankfully, pink handcuffs on me today. I did have my cell phone, strapped heavily to my arm, and my library card on my key chain. If I ended up in a ditch, Manny could identify my body and any overdue books.

Brigitte reiterated that we must have coffee.

“Sure, yeah,” I said, ashamed that my enthusiasm was much less than before I knew of her dancing and flirting talents.

“We must talk of clues as well,” she said. “I seek
more receipts and financial records. Today, I plan to search Napoleon's office with the comb. If I find anything, shall I call you?”

“Absolutely,” I said, more enthusiastically. “Definitely, call me.”

After a pleasant adieu, I justified my self-interested enthusiasm. I wanted more information on Napoleon's dirty business dealings. Flori, in her
Art of War
mode, would approve. She'd say we needed to know Napoleon to know who killed him. She'd also say to keep one's enemy—or romantic nemesis—close.

I sighed, disappointed in my emotions. I needed to get them, not to mention my dinner date menu, under control by tomorrow. Any thoughts of jogging back home had been replaced with a desire to sprint to Tres Amigas, especially when I remembered the breakfast special
.

Chilaquiles,
part of Flori's Mexican specials for Cinco de Mayo, are basically breakfast nachos, a revelation to my Midwest worldview. My family back in Bucks Grove eats cereal for breakfast. Plain, healthy, whole-grain cereal in low-fat milk. On weekends or holidays, we might indulge in pancakes (a very short stack) or French toast (made from wholesome wheat bread). My mother would never, ever condone tortilla chips in chile sauce for breakfast, no matter how delicious.

Flori makes her
chilaquiles
with day-old tortillas, which she panfries until golden brown, crispy on the outside with some chew on the inside. She then coats the chips in red chile sauce and tops them with a fried egg, a dollop of sour cream,
roasted green peppers, and a sprinkling of
cotija
cheese. Extras can include bacon, guacamole, and pickled jalapeños, all of which sounded like just rewards for my morning exercise.

Waiting at an intersection, daydreaming about a nachos breakfast of champions, I barely registered the
WALK
sign flashing on the other side or the silver Audi pulling up beside me.

“Need a ride?” Jake rolled down his window. Wrinkled bulldog lips flopped out and Winston woofed.

Startled, I resorted to instinct, namely Mom's polite refusals. “No, no thanks, I'm too hot,” I blurted out. My face flared red. Flori's knack for unintentional innuendos was rubbing off on me. She, however, can claim age and general brazenness. The worst thing was, I was in no way “hot.” My leggings, intended for yoga that never happened, revealed all the curves I meant to tone. My sweatshirt, oversized and advertising a long-ago police softball tournament, had been Manny's and I should have tossed it ages ago.

Jake's laugh lines crinkled attractively at the corners of his steel-blue eyes. “Yep, looking hot,” he said. “All the more reason to give you a ride.” He directed his next words at Winston. “Time for you to get in the back, buddy.”

I launched into more polite refusals. “No, I couldn't. You really don't want me in the car. I'm probably sweaty.”

Jake ignored me, put on his blinkers and started to get out of the car. “I insist,” he said.

I'd already refused twice, thus fulfilling Mom's
etiquette rules. I decided I could now accept a ride. What I wouldn't do was dislodge Winston, sitting proudly on a tartan-print blanket.

“I'll hop in the back,” I said, prompting protests from Jake.

“It's a mess back there,” he said. “Files everywhere. I have a bear of a case.”

I lived with a teenage daughter who collects more hair dye and art supplies than one casita can comfortably hold. I wasn't worried about stray filing. Otherwise, Jake's car was spotless with a perpetual new-car smell laced with a dash of manly cologne and a touch of bulldog.

“Where to,
madame
?” Jake asked, tipping an imaginary chauffeur's hat.

“Tres Amigas,
s'il vous plaît
,” I said with a grin, forgetting my dating doubts. “We have
chilaquiles
on special this morning . . .” If that wasn't a flirtation, I didn't know what was.

“Yee-haw,” Jake exclaimed. Winston let out a howl, and we sped through the yellow light in the direction of Tres Amigas.

The file folders fanned across the seat beside me. I could read a partial name on one:
rgio Andre.
Filling in the hidden letters was easy. Georgio Andre.

“So, Georgio,” I said, restacking the folders. “I heard that you two had a date the other night.”

“I heard that
you
saw Georgio yesterday,” Jake said slowly. In the rearview mirror, a frown crossed his face. “About Georgio, watch out for—” he started to say and then stopped. A wry smile replaced the frown. “Georgio
loves
art. Remember that if you ever leave him alone in Victor's old place. And, if you were referring to our ‘date' at
the art benefit up on Museum Hill, he bought the tickets. If I'd bought 'em, I would have invited a more attractive date.”

Did he mean me? Or Brigitte? I couldn't tell and got no hint from Jake, who was concentrating on avoiding a street sweeper brushing down the middle of the road. “Ah,” I said, buying time as my mind spun for ways to change the subject. I forced a laugh. “Guess Georgio can't be Napoleon's killer, then.”

“Guess not,” Jake agreed. Then he added in a dry tone, “Guess I'm all sorts of people's alibi for that night.”

I was determined not to ask about Brigitte. Instead, I focused on Linda. “I wish Linda had been at that benefit.” I wouldn't have minded if she'd danced the night away with Jake, far from the scene of the crime.

Jake agreed. “Her early-to-bed routine isn't much of an alibi, that's for sure, although I've seen worse.”

Surely he had. An idea occurred to me. “You haven't heard anything about shakedowns at the health inspector's office, have you?” I asked, monitoring his reaction in the rearview mirror.

His eyebrows wrinkled into a frown. “No . . .” he said slowly.

“What about Don Busco? Do you know him? I mean . . . well . . . professionally?”

“You mean, in my side professions of mixing drinks and fixing gourmet hot dogs?” he joked. “Or do you want to know if he was a client?”

“Client,” I said, worried that I'd set myself up for a cross-examination of motives.

“You know I can't discuss clients, even if I wanted to,” Jake said, turning into the back parking lot of Tres Amigas. “Of course, I can say that Don's never been a client of mine.” His next words verged on suspicious. “Why do you ask, Rita?”

Winston saved me from having to plead the fifth. He let out a howl that echoed through the Audi. I looked out to see a man in a UPS uniform walking two wolfhounds.

“Uniforms,” Jake said over the baying bulldog. “His most hated thing, along with any dog taller than him and bicycles and squirrels and certain statues . . .”

“Good boy,” I told Winston, and jumped out of the car.

W
ell, well!” Flori said happily and a tad suggestively, when Jake, Winston, and I came in through the back door of Tres Amigas.

I quickly explained so she wouldn't get the wrong idea about my early morning male companionship. “I went running,” I reminded her. “I jogged down Canyon Road and Jake happened by and gave me a ride.”

Disappointment flashed behind Flori's spectacles. She recovered by offering Winston a biscuit from the dog-treats cookie jar. The bulldog turned in clumsy circles until the bone-shaped cookie reached his floppy lips. To Jake, she offered an even better treat: taste-tester of the daily special.

“Into the dining room now, both of you,” Flori
said to the man and his dog. Jake settled in and took out his cell phone. Winston laid down, stretching his front and back legs out in what Jake once called his Superman flying pose.

“That's one chivalrous man,” Flori said to me. “Always showing up just when you need him, and an early riser too, a good feature.” She frowned at my attire, suggesting I could step up my fashion if I was going to run into hunks first thing in the morning. I went to change into my backup clothes. When I returned, in faded jeans and a black T-shirt, Flori handed me a plate.

“Here, deliver this hot plate to your hot friend, and here's one for you as well.” Flori winked. “There's nothing like a warm breakfast to grab a man's heart.”

I rolled my eyes and took the two plates. I had a good grasp until she added two mugs of coffee. Jake saw me coming, a jiggly eggs, scorching coffee, and hot chile disaster waiting to happen. He quickly put away his phone and cleared the table. From unfortunate past experience, Jake knows that I'm a waitressing hazard.

“Lovely,” he said once I had safely landed our breakfast plates.

It was lovely. The café wouldn't open for another half hour so we had the dining room to ourselves. Our own private breakfast. A beam of sunlight cut a bright line across the tile floor and set the colorful ceiling decorations aglow. Flori, in the kitchen, sang along to New Mexican folk music on the radio. She always said that this was her favorite time of day. Early morning before anyone else was up, when she could listen to her music
and plan the day's food. I could see why she liked it.