Bread of the Dead: A Santa Fe Cafe Mystery

by Ann Myers

  “We should have brought your car,” I whispered to Cass, mortified that duct tape held up my sun visor and a hula-­skirted bobble-­head man danced on my dash. My car was underdressed.

  Cass made me feel better by making her car seem worse. “My car’s filled with flammable gas canisters and a jug of used etching chemicals. The valet would call in a Hazmat team and the DEA.”

  I smiled apologetically to the valet and handed him a key chain laden with library and supermarket quick-­scan cards, the miniflashlight, and a trinket shaped like a Japanese tea kettle.

  “Okay,” said Cass, her skeletal face grim. “Here we go. Let’s have a code word in case of emergencies, like if either of us wants to leave early. How about the word we used for that potluck a while back? ‘Cupcake’?”

  Cupcake turned out to be a bad choice. Gloria, we quickly found out, was also known for her cupcakes. Cupcake towers the size of Christmas trees stood at either end of a great room that lived up to its name, from its floor-­to-­ceiling fireplace to its walls of windows. The room and cakes were impressive, but what entranced me was the kitchen beyond.

  “Do you see that kitchen?” I marveled, before realizing that Cass was already being cheek-­kissed by the moving-­and-­shaking set, including the handsome knitter Salvatore. I left her to her mingling and made a beeline for the kitchen, which was straight out of the pages of a magazine. I caressed the soft soapstone countertops. I coveted the industrial stainless steel range with double ovens, a grill, and six burners, reminiscent of my French dream stove. I adored the backsplash of translucent green tiles, each the size of a Scrabble tile.

  “You like it?”

  My jumpiness again got the best of me. I jump/turned to see Gloria, a martini glass in one hand and a black and white cupcake in the other.

  “It’s fabulous,” I said, hoping to keep envy out of my voice.

  “You’re Cass’s friend, the culinary expert?”

  I nodded, surprised that she remembered me, in half skeleton attire no less. She was also in face paint, only hers covered her entire face and featured black swirls and red roses. It was much more flamboyant than my paint job, I noted with relief. According to my mother’s code of manners, at costume parties, like dinner parties and weddings, one should never outdress the hostess.

  “Here,” Gloria said, putting down her drink glass. Her voice slurred a little, making me suspect she’d prefortified herself for her own party. “You have to try my cupcakes. I am the former cupcake queen of Amarillo. Blue ribbons three years in a row.” She waved me toward a tray of cupcakes on the counter.

  No one has to ask me to taste an award-­winning cupcake twice. I bit in, savoring rich chocolate ganache icing, a moist yet airy white cake, and the surprise delight of cherry filling.

  “This is amazing! Did you use mascarpone in the cake?”

  She raised her glass to me and gave me a Botox-­straight smile. “You’re the first one to guess it straight off! Good girl! Now, y’all come with me and I’ll introduce you around.”

  I was reluctant to leave the kitchen. I yearned to drool over the espresso station and what appeared to be the thousand-­dollar Italian ice cream maker I’d ogled recently in Food and Wine. Most of all, I wanted to snoop for dough and evidence of Armida making it. Maybe she’d made the cupcakes too, although the integrity of Texan cupcake contests was none of my concern.

  Gloria herded me back into the great room. “Here’s someone y’all will adore!” she said, hands on my back, pushing me into a group of well-­dressed ghouls. “Fabulous foodies, meet Rita. She’s a chef at . . . what restaurant did you say you worked at again, darling?”

  “Ah . . .” I stalled for time, worried about Gloria’s feelings toward Flori but also the daunting chef talent standing in front of me. There was a James Beard award winner, a guy with a Michelin star, and the owner/chef of one of my favorite restaurants. And those were only the ones I recognized in their makeup. Compared to them, I was a culinary ant.

  Luckily, or maybe not so luckily for my undercover aspirations, a familiar voice answered for me.

  “Rita dishes up the best chiles rellenos in town and the best cherry empanada I’ve ever tasted. And her carne adovada? Divine.”

  The chefs turned to a dapper figure dressed in a chic black suit. His face might have been covered by a folk-­art skull mask, but I recognized the voice, not to mention the espresso locks, steely blue eyes, and shiny cowboy boots. Jake continued to sing my praises to the chefs. “Tres Amigas Café. I assume you’ve all been there? It’s always been good, but it’s better than ever now with Rita’s touch.”

  The makeup-­free side of my face surely burned bright red, especially when the James Beard winner deemed our red chile sauce “stunning” and our baked goods “divine.”

  Gloria clasped her hands in pleasure. “I have a sense for the food stars, now don’t I? I’ll have to come try your chiles, that’s for sure.” She slapped me on the back in a jovial linebacker sort of way. “I won’t dare come by for a while, though. Your little friend Flori is my main competition in the death bread contest.” She turned to the chefs. “I’m sorry to say, she won’t be getting the ribbon this year either. Y’all will be showing up and rooting for me, right?”

  They agreed and slipped back into a conversation about cash flow. Their problems of cash flow were definitely not the same as mine. I listened with a mix of envy and awe, sneaking peeks at Jake as I did. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking under his mask. I was thinking that I should make my move back to the kitchen. When a waiter glided in and distracted the chefs with crab legs, I saw my opportunity to escape.

  Jake did too, following me a few feet away to the buffet table. “Good move,” he said. “All that talk of accounting makes law briefs sound like thrillers. Hope you don’t mind that I talked up your empanadas.” He’d lifted his mask, revealing a chiseled face better than any disguise. “I didn’t know that you were friends with Gloria.”

  I explained my invitation via Cass and tried to find her. Partygoers crammed the room. I scanned, wondering if she’d already bolted outside and was waiting by my car. Then I saw her. She was backed into a corner by a figure in a gold body suit with familiar lemon-­yellow hair: Jay-­Jay Jantrell. Cass, her eyes flashing like those of a lassoed wild horse, spotted me and mouthed Cupcake.

  Chapter 18

  She said ‘cupcake’!” I cried to Jake. “I’m going in!”

  “Cupcake?” He looked around, rightfully confused, before his eyes and hands gravitated to a nearby cupcake tower.

  “Cupcake. It’s our rescue word for bad social situations. I’ll be right back.” I made it two steps before he grabbed my elbow.

  “That’s Jay-­Jay Jantrell over there. You think you’re going to make any kind of graceful exit from that woman? You’ll get stuck too and then I’ll have to go rescue you and we’ll all be trapped. Here, try a cupcake. They’re really good.”

  I didn’t admit that I’d already had one. I took the cupcake. I couldn’t eat it, though, not with Cass suffering and trapped. Another yellow-­haired skeleton had joined Jay-­Jay. Both were gesticulating excitedly with their hands.

  “Who’s that with her?” I asked Jake.

  “Her assistant and mini-­me look-­alike, Angelica. The name does not match the personality, trust me.”

  Cass shot me another desperate look, but when I mimed that I was coming over, she gave a quick negative head shake and glanced pointedly at the stage. A skeletal crew in mariachi attire had begun playing old-­fashioned country music, and Gloria was on the microphone, inviting her guests to dance. Cass knew I couldn’t dance. I steeled myself. I’d do it for her.

  “I’m going to do it,” I said. “I’m going to go over there and pretend that I need Cass as my dance partner. It’s the only way.” And then we’d glide away. Right. I’d stomp on her feet and we might trip over a wait
er, but Cass wouldn’t complain, not to escape Jay-­Jay.

  I was about to hand over my cupcake to Jake when he stepped forward. “I’ve got this,” he said, and strode toward the yellow-­haired skeletons.

  I ate the second cupcake and considered having a third as I watched Cass and Jake spin expertly around the dance floor. I had to admit that I was slightly jealous. Okay, more than slightly. They made a gorgeous ­couple, she lithe and blond, he rugged and smooth. Not only that, they danced like pros. She dipped and twirled and two-­stepped without any foot-­stomping involved. He expertly glided them through the crowded dance space.

  When the band switched over to a slow Mexican ballad, they parted. Jake tipped an imaginary cowboy hat to Cass and sauntered off to mingle with a well-­heeled group. Cass, flushed, joined me.

  “Thank you!” she said, grabbing one of the last cupcakes.

  “Don’t thank me. It’s Jake who saved you.” I hoped that I didn’t sound bitter. I forced a smile. “You two looked great dancing together.”

  “That man is a fabulous dancer,” Cass acknowledged. “But you know who we talked about the whole time?”

  “Jay-­Jay?”

  “Heavens no. That woman is horrible. She was practically threatening me, wanting information on your ‘relationship’ with Victor.”

  “Relationship?” The way Cass said the word made it sound unseemly.

  “Yep. She thought you must have been living in Victor’s casita to seduce him and get at his art. When I shot that down, she suspected the same thing of you and Broomer.”

  I made a gagging sound.

  “Don’t let it worry you,” Cass said. “She’s a poisonous snake projecting her own nature. Oh no, speak of the viper.” She tugged me behind a group of distinguished skeletons. Across the room, two yellow heads were making their way toward us.

  “We have to get out of here before they spot you,” Cass said. “Jay-­Jay’s desperate to get into Victor’s place. She’s convinced you have a key. You know, because of all that romantic manipulation you’ve been doing.” My friend started toward the door.

  “Wait!” I tugged her back. “We can’t go yet.”

  My party-­dreading friend grumbled about never understanding extroverts and pulled us behind a cupcake tower.

  “It’s not that,” I protested. “I have to get back in that kitchen and look for evidence of Armida baking the pan de muerto. I owe it to Flori.”

  Cass couldn’t deny the glory of Gloria’s kitchen.

  “I expected gaudy,” she said. “This is pretty darned gorgeous—­if you want to live in a catalog, that is.”

  There were days—­a lot of days—­when I yearned to live in an Ikea display or the Pottery Barn catalog. Residents of Pottery Barn land, I imagined, never stored their treasured Bundt cake pans in their ex’s garage.

  I looked around the kitchen, not sure what I was hoping to find. A recipe for award-­winning pan de muerto with Armida’s signature and fingerprints on it? A home video of Armida kneading the forbidden dough? With Cass standing lookout at the doorway, I peeked in the fridge. Flori suspected that Armida let her dough rise slowly in the refrigerator to heighten its flavor. The double-­door fridge was the size of my closet and packed with everything but dough. Gloria, it seemed, was a lover of fancy salsas, gourmet condiments, and high-­priced cheeses. The fridge reeked of a Parisian fromagerie. In other words, it smelled absolutely divine. I breathed in the scent of ripe Camembert and stinky blue.

  Cass cleared her throat, snapping me back to my senses. “Please hurry,” she said. “This is making me more nervous than the party.”

  “This from a woman who wields a blowtorch,” I teased her.

  “Fire is controllable,” she said darkly.

  I reluctantly shut the refrigerator. What else would Armida need to make the bread? Flour, that’s what. I spotted fine dustings of white on the mahogany floor and tracked them, stopping every few steps to check cupboards and windowsills.

  “Hurry!” Cass urged. “This is the last song before the band takes a break. If Gloria stops dancing, she might come in here.”

  Now that I was looking for flour, I saw it all over, in prints on doorknobs and smudges on canisters and drawers.

  “I’m seeing a lot of flour,” I reported to Cass.

  Her response was depressingly logical. “Well that’s no surprise, right? Someone did make towers of cupcakes.”

  She was correct, of course. Flour in a kitchen would not prove Armida guilty. I spotted footsteps in a dusting of flour by a closed door and went to investigate. My hand was on the doorknob when my phone vibrated. The caller ID said Celia. My heart jumped. Was she in trouble again?

  “Honey, what’s wrong?”

  “Why? Does there have to be something wrong for me to call you?”

  She had a point. “You’re right, honey. How’s the party at the Plaza? Fun?”

  There was silence on the other end of the line. “Yeah,” Celia said, after a beat or two. “It’s fun. Rosa and I were dancing with a bunch of ­people and, well . . . I think we kind of lost Flori. You told me to call if she gave us the slip, so whatever, I’m calling . . .”

  I breathed a sigh of relief. Calling was nice. Celia was extending an olive branch, and losing Flori was no big deal, as I assured her. Flori was certainly an adult and could take care of herself. Still, it did confirm my suspicion that she was up to something.

  “When did you last see her?” I asked. Celia consulted with Rosa. The girls were unclear but estimated that Flori loudly mentioned “finding the old girls’ room” about an hour and a half ago. I thanked Celia for the update, and hearing Cass’s anxious toe-­tapping, hung up to get back to my search.

  “Rita,” Cass whispered, “they’re coming this way!”

  “Gloria?”

  “No, worse!” Cass skidded around the island to my side. “We have to hide!”

  “No one will care that we’re here. We’ll say we’re looking for the restroom,” I said, thinking of a Florilike excuse.

  “No, no! I mean, it’s Jay-­Jay and Broomer!”

  Gloria’s distinctive hyenalike laughter sounded near the doorway. I acted on instinct and pulled Cass into what I assumed was Gloria’s pantry.

  “Ouch!”

  “Sorry, Cass,” I whispered. Leave it to me to tromp on feet.

  “Sorry for what?” she whispered. “Did I bump you?”

  “Shush you two! You’ll give us away!”

  Luckily, Gloria’s hyena hooting drowned out my yelp and Cass’s gasp.

  “Flori!” we both exclaimed in whispers.

  “Great minds think alike,” she chuckled in the darkness. “Now hush. I need to record what they’re saying. I have to get this tape recorder out of my bra or it won’t pick up anything.”

  I rolled my eyes in the darkness as Flori whispered about the recording detriments of wired, padded undergarments.

  Outside, Jay-­Jay’s cackle had subsided, replaced by more disturbing sounds. Moans and loud lip-­smacking sounds. Jay-­Jay and Broomer either really liked cupcakes or they liked each other a lot more than he’d let on previously.

  Cass nudged me and groaned in my ear.

  “Laurence . . .” Jay-­Jay’s voice was right outside the pantry door and piercingly high. “You fox. No more of this, you bad boy, until you give me what I want.”

  “I told you. I can’t get into Victor’s place any more than you can. What do you think, they’re going to let me walk in and haul out all his folk junk?”

  Jay-­Jay’s response was breathless. “I don’t need you to haul out anything, darling. Not yet. I need to get inside, that’s all. Vic surely has a spare key hidden outside. You go and find it for me. He was a ninny about those things so it’ll be obvious. Look under the doormat or a potted plant or behind those infernal saints.”

/>   Behind the pantry door, we endured another round of lip smacking before Broomer spoke again.

  “And what will you do with that key?”

  “Insurance,” Jay-­Jay cackled. “Ensuring my grieving widow’s rights, let’s say. And if you’re good, you’ll get some sugar too. Now let’s go get ourselves some oysters. They’re aphrodisiacs, you know.”

  Jay-­Jay’s cackle receded. Flori pushed by me, opened the door a crack and peeked out. I blinked against the brightness of the kitchen.

  “All clear,” she declared.

  As my eyes adjusted, I fixed on Flori. She wore a black robe and cloak that would fit right in at a Hobbit or Harry Potter convention. In fact, the robe looked a lot like the Harry Potter wizard’s outfit she’d made for her great-­grandson last Halloween.

  “What are you doing here?” I demanded. “Did you follow me?”

  “I could ask the same of you,” she said, rather righ­teously for someone found skulking in a pantry. “I saw you out there flirting with your handsome lawyer. Good job.”

  “Hardly flirting,” I grumbled, feeling petty because of my feelings. “Cass is the one who danced with him.”

  “That was a rescue dance,” Cass protested. “And anyway, I never told you who Jake talked about the entire dance. You, Rita! Flori’s right. That man sure is interested. You can thank me later.”

  “Thank you for what?” Early after my divorce, Cass dragged me out on a double date that turned into a singular disaster for me. I didn’t want any more well-­meaning setups.

  She winked, smiled, and followed Flori toward the kitchen door. We were almost out when an arm blocked our path.

  “You again. Where did you come from?” Broomer’s voice was mean and hard, like I’d heard that night at Gabriel’s.

  “Looking for the ladies’ loo!” Flori crowed, sounding like Addie in full faux British.