Bread of the Dead: A Santa Fe Cafe Mystery

by Ann Myers

  “We can ask them later,” I said, tugging at Flori’s elbow. “When everyone has eaten pastry and put on pants.”

  “Ask away. I’m intrigued,” our naked host said, dashing any hopes I had of extracting Flori. He adjusted his position, leaning back, both elbows resting on smooth boulders. I focused on the waterfall above his head.

  He waved toward a rock carved out to form a seat. “If you won’t come in, you might as well sit. Help yourself to some green tea if you want.” He nodded toward a cast-­iron teapot. “There are cups in the teahouse. My blend today is a roasted organic sencha from Kyoto, highlighted with premium Darjeeling tips.”

  We both declined tea. Flori plopped herself on the stone seat, sticking her wet feet out toward the heat. My own feet had frozen to numb in the sopping sneakers, but I wasn’t about to remove any item of clothing in the presence of Broomer.

  “Where did you go after that fight you had with the brothers the night Victor died?” I asked, trying to keep my voice neutral.

  “Yes, where?” Flori said, playing bad cop to my neutral questioner. She held the towel in both hands, as if ready to snap Broomer into answering.

  “Ah, so that’s what you’re poking around about? I’ll tell you where I was. I was here, trying to relax after such a stressful, unnecessary encounter. You try dealing with a hard-­headed, property-­stealing neighbor like Gabriel. Victor, I had no big problem with. He was willing to listen. His brother is costing me a fortune in time and legal bills.”

  Was this why Victor had contacted Jake? Maybe he’d simply been mistaken about Jake’s legal specialty or thought that since he got guilty ­people off, he could do anything. “But all this is about a few feet of land?” I asked. “Why bother? Your yard looks great.”

  “This is a garden, not a yard. And why bother? Do you know what property’s worth in this neighborhood?” He waved his hands, sending up a splash that landed on my knee. “I’m going to build a meditation hut over there and I need certain dimensions for proper flow. More than that, it’s the principle. You buy land, it’s yours. Case closed, except with those yahoos next door.”

  Fighting in the name of peaceful meditation boggled my mind. I supposed I should have been glad that Broomer wasn’t into Asian stick fighting or swordplay. I nudged Flori, hoping she’d leave with me. Instead, she subjected Broomer to more questions.

  “So, no alibi,” she said, brazenly eyeing Broomer from head to naked toe.

  “Alibi?” He stretched an ankle over the side of the pool. “I need an alibi for a suicide?”

  When neither Flori nor I said anything, he frowned. “What are you implying? It wasn’t a suicide? Don’t tell me someone else shot him?” A stream of curses was followed by a whiny, “Why does this always happen to me?”

  How much more self-­centered could this guy be? “Victor’s the one who’s dead,” I snapped, neither confirming nor denying our suspicion of murder.

  “Dead guys don’t have to worry about their property values, do they? It was bad enough to be by a suicide house, and now it’s a murder house?” He stood abruptly. I looked away but not before seeing Flori toss his towel into the far side of the pool.

  Chapter 15

  You should never trespass,” I told my daughter, ignoring Flori’s rolling of eyes.

  “Who said anything about trespassing?” Celia asked, her surly voice refreshed by a long night’s sleep. Only the racket of me accidentally tipping cookie tins onto the tile floor had gotten her out of bed.

  “I’m just saying,” I said. “Trespassing leads to unsafe and unexpected encounters.”

  “Like naked men,” Flori chimed in.

  “Absolutely do not talk to naked men,” I clarified, shooting Flori a glare.

  Celia took advantage of my bungling attempt at motherly advice and snagged the sole chocolate-­covered éclair. “Sure, Mom, whatever. No trespassing. What were you two doing this morning anyhow? You have forest stuff stuck in your hair.”

  I reached up and felt around.

  “Over your ear,” Flori instructed. “A bamboo leaf. And maybe a spider.”

  “Ahh!” I doubled over and pawed my hair frantically, feeling around for legs and worse. A leaf and several twigs fell out. The absence of a spider wasn’t entirely reassuring. “We were looking into some things,” I said, tentatively patting my hair and composure back into place and surveying the bakery box. I narrowed the choice down to a soft raisin bun wrapped around custard cream, and the éclair with a coffee-­flavored glaze and filling. Loving anything with rich vanilla custard, I decided on the bun.

  “We were trespassing,” Flori admitted, again to my maternal dismay.

  “Which you shouldn’t do.” I waved the bun for emphasis. “Never trespass. Obey all signs and speed limits too.”

  “That’s where you saw the naked man, when you were trespassing?” Celia now sounded mildly interested.

  I started to protest. Flori, however, had the floor and Celia’s attention. “Yes, dear, your neighbor Mr. Broomer. Listen to your mother and never go over there. That man is untrustworthy and sits about naked in the morning when honest, hardworking ­people should be getting on with their day.”

  Celia polished off her éclair and washed it down with orange juice. “Broomer’s a creep. I could have told you guys that. Victor and me, we hit a badminton birdie over there by mistake and Broomer threw a fit when I went around through the creek to get it.”

  “A fit? He threatened you?” I’d worried about what my daughter was doing away from home, and look what was going on right outside our door: knife/gunfights, a likely murder, a skulker, and a naked creep/possible murderer.

  “Maybe we should move,” I said, ready to start packing immediately. “I could look into that El Matador condo complex by Fort Marcy Park. We could use the gym and sports fields across the street, and they have that nice secure entry gate with the metal bull and matador on it and—­”

  “Oh Mom, calm down,” my daughter said, exasperation evident. “I meant that he’s a creep, that’s all. There’re creeps everywhere. He had some guys over there and the whole yard stunk of pot. I told Victor. He said he’d deal with it.”

  Beside me, Flori rapped her fingers against the colorful Mexican tiles of my kitchen table. I could guess what she was thinking. Maybe Broomer was dealing in more than art. Maybe Victor found out. If she was having such thoughts, she didn’t let on in front of Celia.

  “I need a helper to watch my display table up at the International Folk Museum this weekend,” Flori said, “so I’ll be rested for the pan de muerto contest on Monday evening.” She took the last croissant and smeared butter on the already buttery pastry. “You wouldn’t know anyone who could help me, do you, Celia?”

  When my daughter made a noncommittal grunt, I nudged her foot under the table. Flori knew about Celia’s speeding/open container/surly attitude ticket. It was kind of her to ask. I mentally willed my daughter to be wise and polite enough to accept her offer.

  “I guess I need some extra money to, ah . . . pay for something stupid,” Celia said grudgingly.

  “Fabulous!” Flori said. “I bet you’re a great skull decorator.”

  Celia actually smiled.

  She’s fine,” Flori assured me later at Tres Amigas. “I did silly things when I was that age too, like cutting my own hair. I didn’t go and dip my head in black ink, though.”

  I didn’t reveal that Celia’s weed-­whacker hairstyle had been professionally and expensively inflicted. We stood in the café kitchen, watching as Celia and Addie, headphones wedged in their ears, applied colored icing to sugar skulls. So far Addie had produced a single skull decorated in smudged polka dots. Celia, meanwhile, was a skull assembly line, her artistic drive heightened by Flori’s financial incentive. Flori had generously offered her half the day’s profits from skull sales. Hopefully she’d make a lot. The folk mu
seum, located on Museum Hill, was an ideal venue, stuffed with handicrafts from all over the world, including some of Victor’s painted saints. Cass was right. Victor’s art, already museum quality, would jump in value now that he was gone. Someone would be inheriting a fortune. The only question was who.

  “I really appreciate your helping Celia out,” I said to Flori, shaking off these thoughts. “Helping us out, I should say.”

  She smiled. “Sugar skulls won’t put a dent in a Tesuque traffic ticket, I’m afraid. Bernard, the old fool, got three of those one summer. That’s when I put my foot down about him gambling out at Buffalo Thunder. He lost more money driving there and getting tickets than he did at the infernal slot machines.”

  I asked about Bernard’s bum hip and listened as Flori complained about her husband’s ailments, real and imagined. She didn’t fool me with her gruff talk. I’d seen her and big white-­haired Bernard dancing on the Plaza together, cheek-­to-­cheek, sweet as can be. I’d even spotted them making out behind the bandstand one summer night. If you’re making out in public in your eighties, you must be pretty darned in love.

  The cowbell hanging from the front door clanged. I looked up, half expecting and hoping to see Jake’s cowboy silhouette. Instead, short legs, a pair of arms, and a huge stack of boxes stumbled in. I rushed to help Linda.

  “Boxes for packing up skulls,” she said, out of breath.

  “One hour until we pack up!” Flori yelled in Celia’s direction. Celia nodded and picked up her pace. Linda, freed of boxes, sagged into a chair by the fireplace.

  “I’m exhausted,” she declared, accepting my offer of hot Earl Grey tea.

  “Too many tamales?” I asked, pouring hot water into a teapot for us to share. Addie abandoned her skull, trilling happily about a “nice, proper cuppa.” Only Celia, committed to continued skull production, declined a tea break.

  “Hundreds of tamales,” Linda groaned, twining her fingers in her thick, salt-­and-­pepper hair and tugging it away from her face. “Tamales for the museum event, tamales for my cart, tamales for the Día de los Muertos festival on the Plaza, tamales for the café. I wish the event coordinators had kept everything to Saturday and Sunday like they used to.” She paused to take a sip of tea. “But I would have been okay for today. I had the timing right and my corn husks soaked and laid out, and then . . .” She took another sip of tea.

  “Then what?” Flori demanded. She has no patience for suspense. It’s the reason she’s so driven to snoop and won’t watch movies unless she knows the ending, and why she peeks at the final chapter of novels before page one.

  Linda avoided her mother’s stare. “Gabe. That poor man. He wanted to come over and visit, so I said yes and . . .”

  “And?” Flori prompted. “Did you show some interest in that man?”

  Addie, her pinkie finger raised above her teacup, backed up Flori. “He’s a right nice chap that Gabriel.”

  “Mama! Addie!” Linda protested. “You know my feelings about relationships, and such talk is not appropriate at this time. Gabriel is delusional with grief, bless his heart and the soul of dear Victor.” She made a dramatic sign of the cross and looked heavenward.

  Flori made a huffy sound. “Well I didn’t mean for you to do anything sinful, dear.” She shot me a pointed look, like I’d be taking her side on this. I held up my palms. Flori and each of her three daughters are strong-­minded and stubborn in different ways. No way was I getting involved. I had enough to worry about with Flori’s demands that I show interest in Jake Strong. However, I couldn’t help being curious.

  “What did Gabe want to talk about?” I asked.

  Linda said something in Spanish, the gist of which I understood in my rudimentary español as “crazy talk.” Switching to English, she said, “He says that it is like we are teenagers again. Like time has gone backward.” She paused to scowl at her mother’s and Addie’s awwww sounds. “We are not teenagers. I am no teenager. I think he only says these things because he is all alone. He misses his brother.”

  “Poor man,” Flori said, verbalizing my thoughts. “I hope you were nice to him, Linda.”

  Linda assumed a pout and a surly voice that could have come straight from Celia. “Of course I was nice, Mama. Too nice. I listened to all his talk and spent the rest of the night worrying that I’d given him the wrong idea. Such worries will affect my tamales. The masa felt heavy in my hands. The tamales will be tough.” With a dire shaking of her head, she stomped off to take a seat by Celia, who acknowledged her with an upward nod and handed her a paintbrush.

  Flori leaned in toward my ear, whispering so loud it reverberated off my eardrum. “Tamales, that’s all that girl thinks of, despite being widowed and free. Rita, let it be a lesson. Don’t get so wrapped up in tamales that you get old and miss out on something good. Pinch that strong and handsome Jake Strong on the butt next time you see him. Trust me, it’s a pleasure.”

  Addie, snickering, topped off my tea. Flori tottered off to check the rise on her pan de muerto dough, a final test version before she started the contest batch tomorrow. I thought about what she’d said. Not only about Jake but about age too. Forty hadn’t been bad, but now I was into my forties. According to women’s magazines, this was the time when I should be reinventing my life in some fabulous way. Like discovering an innate knack for making goat cheese or inventing a best-­selling cell phone app or becoming a pillow designer for the rich and fabulous. None of these prospects seemed feasible or what I wanted to do, except for the goat cheese, but that fell into the impossible-­dream category. The rich and fabulous, however, reminded me that Gloria’s Halloween/Día de los Muertos party was tonight. I had nothing black-­tie skeleton to wear.

  I called to Flori, saying I needed to run an errand and pretending I didn’t hear her demand to know where. I knew one thing: I didn’t want to be responsible for Flori crashing Gloria’s party.

  Chapter 16

  I stood in front of Cass’s studio, realizing that in last night’s swirl of dancing, cocoa, police, and skulkers, I’d neglected something vital. I’d failed to tell my best friend about my daughter getting her son in trouble with the law, not to mention with his father and possibly his tribal elders. That surely broke all sorts of friend and mom codes of conduct. Feeling guilty, I peeked in her studio window, inset deep in thick adobe walls. Strings of white lights twinkled across the beamed ceiling of the cozy front room where Cass sold her jewelry. If customers aren’t around, she works on new pieces in her attached studio room. Now, however, she stood behind the row of display cases, holding up silver chains. Two women in denim skirts and cowgirl boots pressed their noses to the cases, pointing out items to try on. I hovered outside, not wanting to interrupt a potential sale and worrying about what to say.

  Walker had said he was going to call Cass. He seemed like a man of his word, so she likely already knew. This sparked a new worry. If she knew and hadn’t called me, maybe she was mad about Celia goading her son into questionable activities. The worst before this was when Celia convinced Sky to help her graffiti-­tag cacti for an art project. Her use of water-­washable paint hadn’t stopped her art teacher from giving both teens mandatory cactus restoration work. Cass brushed that troublemaking off as artistic license. But getting nabbed by the police was in no way artistic.

  Cass looked up, saw me, and mouthed something I couldn’t understand, holding up her index finger in a Soon or Wait gesture. Was she mad? I was worse at reading emotions than I was at reading lips. To avoid further speculation, I turned from the window and leaned up against the adobe wall, looking out over the postcard-­pretty scene surrounding me.

  At the nearby cathedral, bells rang out the hour and reminded me that I wanted to light a candle for Victor. Down the street, the ancient portales along Palace Avenue would soon be decorated with pine boughs and Christmas lights. Already, piñon smoke scented the air, turning my culinary thoughts to ba
king and hearty stews. To distract myself from worries, I focused on recipes for roasted winter squashes. I was pondering cheese choices for butternut lasagna when Cass’s customers came outside, followed a few steps behind by Cass.

  We watched as the ladies jaywalked toward the cathedral, swinging Cass’s brown-­paper gift bags with colorful ribbon handles.

  “Good sale?” I asked, thinking that So, my daughter and your son, hauled in by the police wouldn’t be my best opener.

  “Any sale is good these days. That one was good, but not like the bounty of Gloria,” she said, and then groaned. “Gloria’s party . . .”

  “That’s why I’m here,” I said. “What to wear . . . that and . . .” I let my sentence drop off, hoping to feel out if Cass knew. When she only raised an eyebrow, I burst out, “You haven’t talked to Walker, have you? He said he’d call and so I thought I’d let him tell you, not that there’s much to tell since nothing much happened, except that the open beer can is unforgivable and surely Celia’s idea. I swear, she’ll be paying for the ticket by making sugar skulls for the rest of her teenage years if she has to. Please don’t be mad at us!”

  I paused for air, my stomach turning as I registered Cass’s deepening scowl.

  “Sky’s staying with his father this week,” she said, still frowning. “Walker texted me and said the kids got stopped for speeding out at the Pueblo. That area’s a speed trap, so I figured it was nothing.”

  “Oh,” I said, and after more hemming and umming, explained Celia’s offering of Victor’s favorite beer at one of his beloved spots. I finished with, “She’ll be grounded forever if I have to.”

  “It was a rather sweet sentiment.”

  “What?” I said. “Well, yeah, sweet but stupid.”

  “Indeed. Stupid about the beer. I’ll talk to Sky this afternoon,” Cass promised. “He swears he doesn’t drink. His father has talked to him a lot about that. But how can we know? It’s not like we can fix breathalyzers to their necks.” She reached inside her shop and turned the door sign to BACK SOON. Then she gave me a quick hug. “I know you’re worried about Celia, but she’ll be okay. She’s tough and smart and is getting to know herself.”