Bread of the Dead: A Santa Fe Cafe Mystery

by Ann Myers

  Meanwhile, a tote bag of library books dug into my shoulder as a bag filled with Flori’s breads bumped against my knee. I felt like a weary pack mule. But wasn’t walking the best exercise? And who could complain about a commute along Canyon Road, Santa Fe’s renowned art district? I walked this way regularly, yet couldn’t resist glancing in the brightly lit galleries, admiring panoramic paintings and fanciful figurines. I stopped by a giant statue of a horse head to readjust the tote bag. The statue, bronze turned to minty patina, stood as tall as an upturned van, with flaring nostrils and wild eyes. A nearby plaque named it as Helicon, cast from the mold for the world’s largest equestrian bronze. Impressive, for sure, but for me the horse marked the best leg of my commute, the part that feels like an insider’s secret.

  Beyond the colossal horse, the galleries peter out, as do the tourists, few of whom make it as far as my address on Upper Canyon. It’s too bad, as they would surely enjoy the picturesque landscape as much as I do. The narrow road follows a gentle creek valley and its ribbon of cottonwoods and willows. Silvery sage, flowering cactuses, and rabbitbrush, which blooms in golden puffs in autumn, are more common than the manicured lawns of my midwestern youth. Even more entrancing is the architecture. I still marvel at the high adobe walls with their bulging buttresses and massive gates trimmed in metalwork and flickering gas lamps. I also adore the peekaboo views of the homes behind the walls, their windows deep set in thick adobe. Some, like my new home base, started out as simple farmhouses and remain as modest family compounds. Others have become luxury estates. I’ve spotted my neighbors’ houses in design magazines, and realtors lucky enough to snag a listing in the area gush adjectives such as “extraordinary,” “incomparable,” and “priceless,” all while assigning million-­dollar-­plus price tags.

  And now this was my address. I still pinched myself, hardly believing my good fortune. Best of all, the desirable location came with a wonderful landlord, Victor. As I turned the final bend, I saw him waving to me from our mailboxes. I raised the bag of bread to show that I’d brought treats.

  “Mmm . . .” he said when I reached the driveway. “The dead must be talking to me because I sensed Flori’s pan de muerto before I saw you.”

  I handed him the bag and he stuck his face in it, making more mmm and ahhh sounds. When he emerged, purple sugar smudged the tip of his big nose, complementing the turquoise paint above his ear and dotting his apron. Although supposedly retired now that he’s sixty-­eight, Victor spends many hours running art workshops at his nonprofit for at-­risk kids. In his spare time he creates his own art, primitive paintings of saints done on reclaimed wood and metal. Saint art is more common than horse sculptures in Santa Fe. In other words, there’s a whole lot of it. Victor’s work, however, stands out and is sought by collectors both locally and internationally. In fact, Flori heard from one of her sources—­a keen-­eared and loose-­lipped museum docent—­that Victor’s saints will star in the Christmas exhibit at Santa Fe’s Museum of International Folk Art. When I offered congratulations, though, Victor had shrugged them off. He’s as humble as a teddy bear and resembles one too, with big ears, dark button eyes, and a round belly to boot.

  I walked down the gravel driveway with Victor, charmed, as always, by the setting. The spacious gardens resemble a park more than a yard. Heirloom apple trees, planted by Victor’s grandfather, still droop with ruby-­red fruit in summer. Tall grasses wave against bristly cactuses, and stone pathways lead to hidden benches and peaceful resting spots. My favorite path meanders downhill to a pretty patch of forest and the burbling stream, which is actually the grandly named Santa Fe River.

  Victor’s family home blends into its natural surroundings. The sprawling, earth-­hued adobe, built over multiple generations, is now occupied by Victor and his younger brother Gabriel. The bachelor brothers value their privacy and claim separate wings and entrances. Celia and I rent the adobe cottage on Victor’s side, nestled at the top of the back garden. In other parts of the country our place might be called the mother-­in-­law house. Here, it’s a casita, or “little house.”

  By urban apartment standards it’s not that small, although tell that to my sixteen-­year-­old daughter. If Celia’s home to complain about casita claustrophobia, that is. Lately, her after-­school activities and study sessions were lasting late into the night. Curfew threats and cajoling on my part hadn’t done any good, especially with her dad taking her side.

  As I expected, the lone car in the driveway was Victor’s vintage VW Beetle, painted shiny goldenrod yellow with red Zia sun symbols on the roof and mirrors. If Celia had come home, she was already gone. At best, she’d have written a note. As usual, I’d probably end up leaving unanswered messages on her phone and waiting up. I sighed.

  “Cheer up,” Victor said, guessing my mood. “No one should be sad around this time. We want the departed to come back and visit. We have to remind them there’s good in this world. Come on in and I’ll show you my altar.”

  I readily accepted. Visiting Victor is always a treat. He rivals Flori in his culinary skills and always has goodies on hand. Plus, his house is filled with amazing art. In addition to his own creations, he collects a wide range of the wacky and wonderful, like landscapes created from tin scraps and crosses decorated in straw inlay, as fine and lustrous as gold filigree.

  A display I’d never seen before caught my attention. Clay figures, rustic in form but raw in their emotions, mourned in front of an open casket. They were joined by wooden angels and backed by a papier-­mâché skeleton holding a sugar skull.

  I shivered, despite myself. “So many skeletons . . .”

  Victor turned and grinned. “Yeah. We get into the true holiday spirit around here. Those clay figures, they’re from Oaxaca, made by a family of famous female potters. They’re known for their wake and funeral scenes.”

  I told him they were lovely. They were, although they tugged at my emotions a whole lot more than the fake tombstones and cartoon vampires of Halloween décor.

  “I think they’re lovely too,” Victor said fondly. He rearranged a kneeling mourner and smiled at me. “And wait until Christmas. I have a whole manger scene by the same potters.”

  Surely Christmas came with fewer bones. Carefully maneuvering my bags past art and a few more skeletons, I followed him into the main living room. “Wow,” was all I could say. Even in this house of wonders, the shrine stood out.

  “Yep,” Victor said, sounding a bit embarrassed. “Pretty impressive, eh? This altar has been in our family for generations. I keep the main structure in a back room and bring it out to decorate every year.”

  A three-­tiered stairlike structure sat atop a wooden table. On the top tier, an ornate silver cross gleamed, flanked by statues of the Virgin Mary and various saints. The other tiers held photographs. Most were formal portraits in black and white and all were surrounded by an array of foods, flowers, candles, and skulls.

  “That’s my dad,” Victor said, pointing to a sepia print of a serious-­faced man wearing a suit coat and a bolo tie that resembled the turquoise one around Victor’s neck. “And this is Mom.” He picked up a photo of a smiling lady with a wide nose and broad cheeks like his own.

  As he pointed out other relations, I made appreciative sounds and told him how much I admired his family’s sense of history. I did admire it, although it pressed a guilt button. Could I name my great-­aunt’s cousin, let alone find a framed picture of her? I probably couldn’t recall all of my great-­grandparents’ names, and last year I’d proved that I couldn’t pick a first cousin out of a police lineup. Worst of all, I was shamefully behind on calling my mom and sister. Mom had left a phone message and several e-­mails. I vowed to e-­mail her. I knew she’d prefer a call or better yet a visit, but I dreaded her worries, which often morphed into critiques. How is Celia coping? How will you cope, alone? You’re a cook. Why don’t you come home and cook?

  I’d gi
ven up trying to explain to Mom that Santa Fe, not Bucks Grove, Illinois, was my home now. Sure, I hadn’t lived here long, and I only moved to try to save my marriage. I’d thought—­incorrectly—­that Manny’s discontent arose from big-­city-­cop burnout, potentially curable by reuniting with his small-­city roots and family. After all, he always said he wanted to return to Santa Fe someday. When we met in Denver two decades ago, I was in culinary school and Manny was a dashing patrolman with urban-­detective aspirations. After Celia came along, we moved closer to my mom and sister, choosing a suburb within driving distance of both Bucks Grove and Chicago. Manny earned a detective’s badge in the city, while I took care of Celia, worried about my crime-­fighting husband, and cooked part-­time at a French restaurant. I liked our town and my work well enough. They were fine, though not enthralling or enchanting. Manny, meanwhile, never meshed with his jobs or the Midwest. He switched departments and positions and became increasingly restless with work . . . and with me.

  Although Santa Fe failed to save our marriage, it transformed my life for the better in other ways. Flori hired me even though I’d never put hot peppers in my breakfast waffles and couldn’t distinguish an ancho chile from a chipotle. She claimed that she sensed a shared spirit between us. Maybe it was our mutual knack for snooping. Then there was the place itself. The vast landscapes, the special light, the scent of roasting chiles, and, yes, even the painted bones enthralled me. I understood but couldn’t quite articulate what Georgia O’Keeffe and others have felt. I belonged here. I had found my true hometown, the place I was meant to be. Mom didn’t get the special light and breakfast chiles, but she usually conceded that I shouldn’t tear Celia away from her dad and final years of high school.

  Tuning back into Victor’s explanation of his altar, I thought of other aspects of Santa Fe that I loved, namely the wonderful ­people and vibrant traditions.

  “In Spanish this is called an ofrenda, an offering,” he was saying, waving his big hands to encompass the whole structure. Candlelight reflected off the thick silver rings and turquoise stones adorning his fingers. “The idea goes back to the Aztecs, who gave their dead food for their journey to the netherworld. Now we celebrate the older beliefs together with All Saints’ and All Souls’ Days and Halloween too. This weekend, before the spirits return, I’ll add more drinks and foods that my relatives liked. We don’t expect that they’ll actually consume it, of course, but it’s said that the spirits can smell and taste the food. I’ll put out other special things too, like this deck of cards for my Uncle Alejandro.”

  I wished I could taste some of the food already in place, especially the candies and sweets.

  “These are beautiful,” I said, pointing to a bowl of marzipan peaches that looked like the real fruit, except better, with a glittery sugar coating. “And the flowers and candles are so pretty too.”

  “Candles light the way for the spirits,” Victor explained as he adjusted a wreath of marigold tops. “These marigolds, they’re the flowers of the dead. The spirits can smell them. That’s why we line our sidewalks with marigold flowers, to lead the way to our doors.”

  Victor took out one of Flori’s breads, a grinning skull with doughy crosses as eyes. He set it on his altar and stepped back to admire it. “Perfect. Now, do you have time for a snack?”

  I didn’t need more snacking, that’s for sure. I work with food and spend my days nibbling and taste-­testing at Tres Amigas. On the other hand, I wasn’t in any hurry to get back to the lonely casita. I gratefully accepted.

  Victor refused my offer to help in the kitchen. I was dozing off in a comfy chair, lulled by the flickering candles, when he returned with what he called New Mexican hot chocolate.

  I took a sip. “I’ll never want instant hot chocolate again!” I exclaimed. In the six months I’d lived in the casita, Victor had treated me to several drinks that made my best-­ever list. Horchata, a cool, sweet drink that tasted like rice pudding in a glass. Spiced cider pressed from tart heirloom apples collected in our backyard. Homemade chai, milky and scented with cardamom. This chocolate hit the top of the list. Rich, slightly bittersweet chocolate was balanced by the warmth of cinnamon, vanilla, and a surprising hint of hot pepper. Utterly delicious. If I were a spirit, this would lure me back.

  “Wait until you try it with some of my bizcochitos. I made them this morning.” Victor headed back through the maze of art toward the kitchen. I eagerly awaited the official state cookie of New Mexico. Basically, a bizcochito is a shortbread cookie flavored with anise. But it’s a lot more than that. The cookie is history and culture rolled into one sweet treat. Some say the bizcochito has roots in sixteenth-century Spain. Others point to Scotland or to crypto-­Jewish settlers who hid their faith during New Mexico’s early colonial years. Whatever the origin, the cookies are revered and grace special occasions from baptisms and weddings to sweet-­fifteen quinceañeras and, especially, Christmas celebrations.

  Victor returned with a cookie-­laden plate and I was reduced to moans at my first bite.

  “My nana’s recipe,” he said, a note of pride sneaking through his humbleness.

  “You could win contests with these!” I exclaimed, before clamping my mouth shut. Flori would bristle like an angry horned toad if another top competitor entered local contests.

  He shook his head. “No, it’s enough that special ­people enjoy them.”

  “Lard,” I said, determined to wheedle out the recipe. “You have to use lard to get them this delicate.”

  Victor liked to share treats, yet rarely gave up family secrets. I’d begged, unsuccessfully, for the recipes behind his green chile stew and skillet corn bread with brown butter and red pepper.

  He rewarded my guess with a little smile. “Yes, lard. Of course.”

  Okay, lard was too easy. It may not be the go-­to ingredient in modern cookies, but bizcochito purists swear by the melt-­in-­your-­mouth texture lard imparts. I got Victor to reveal a splash of wine, a somewhat unusual ingredient, and dashes of anise, cinnamon, and ginger. I was lobbing other guesses when I noticed that my host had zoned out. He stared at the altar, his mug of chocolate raised to his lips but not sipped. I wondered if he was sad, thinking of lost family members.

  “Flori says this is a time to celebrate,” I said, sounding like a perky cheerleader for the dead.

  My landlord nodded, eyes still fixed on the altar. “She’s right. The spirits of the peacefully resting will be welcome visitors. It’s the others that haunt us.”

  Worried, I put down my cup, prepared to ask him what he meant. However, his look had morphed to one of panic. Angry voices echoed through the house, followed by Victor’s pounding footsteps running toward them.

  Chapter 3

  Showing surprising speed for a retiree weighed down by a big belly and heavy metal jewelry, Victor ran down the dark corridor leading to his brother’s side of the house. I hesitated, unsure of the etiquette of charging through someone else’s home and into an argument. Then I heard Victor yell, “Stop! No!” and I sprinted down the dark hall.

  I’d never been in his brother’s side of the house. In fact, I’d rarely made much more than small talk with Gabriel at the mailbox or the rare times he stopped by the café. A hospital administrator, Gabriel always seemed polite yet hurried, a habit I assumed he had acquired in his earlier career as an emergency room doctor.

  The open door at the end of Victor’s hallway led to another world. There were no bones here, no eclectic folk art. Instead, oil paintings in gilt frames hung on pale plaster walls, lit by museum-­style lighting. Three doorways opened in different directions, all dark. Unsure which way to head, I stood for a moment beside a life-­size portrait of an Indian woman collecting water, wishing she could tell me what to do. Then I heard Victor’s voice rising above the rumble of an argument. Moving tentatively through the dark, I followed the sounds down a short arched hallway.

  It led to a
bright kitchen. I glanced at the white marble countertops and the pounded copper vent hood over a gorgeous Lacanche range. Under other circumstances, I would have studied the kitchen details and especially the French fantasy range, with its shiny dark blue enamel and array of burners. Not now. A man stood next to it brandishing a butcher’s knife. Victor was in front of him, sandwiched between the blade and the shotgun held by his brother Gabriel.

  “It’s okay, Rita,” Victor said, not taking his eyes off the man with the knife. “A neighborly spat over fence lines. My brother here is a little upset, that’s all.”

  Gabriel looked a whole lot more than a “little” upset to me. His eyebrows, dark and thick like Victor’s, furrowed into a scowl. Erasing the scowl and adding a handful of years and thirty pounds, he could have been Victor’s twin, although I doubted that Victor ever wore pressed khakis and a button-­down shirt without a speck of paint on them.

  Glancing at me, Gabriel said, “You best leave, Ms. Lafitte. This is none of your concern. You too, brother. I’m going to handle this now. This man is threatening us and I’ll have none of it.”

  No way was I leaving, unless I dashed for a phone. My cell phone languished in my purse in Victor’s side of the house. That was too far away, and I feared that a sudden move might startle the weapon wielders.

  “Please,” I pleaded to the man with the knife. “Let’s talk this through.”

  He made a scoffing sound. “Ha! Talk? I’m done talking, except through my lawyer and bulldozer driver! You’ll be meeting them soon.”

  He raised the weapon, holding it in the classic horror-­movie stabbing pose. I felt queasy. If he slashed downward, his first point of contact would be Victor’s broad chest.