by Ann Myers
So far I’d seen only happy people. Tourists flowed in and out of the Five and Dime, which sold souvenirs and necessities like Band-Aids and aspirin. Another necessity, if you asked me, was frito pie, a delicacy consisting of individual bags of Fritos smothered in steaming chili, shredded cheese, chopped onions, and pickled jalapeños. Some locals claim this snack was invented right here at the Five and Dime—then a Woolworth’s—back in the 1960s. Texans give origin credit to San Antonio. Still others say the recipe came from a man raising money to return home to Mexico, or, less romantically, that it emerged from corporate test kitchens. A young couple stepped out of the store, heads down, plastic forks burrowing into bulging Fritos bags. They wouldn’t care where the idea came from, just that it was a good one.
I watched them cross the street and pass by Crepe Empire. The slick cart stood at the spot Napoleon had stolen from Linda. Its rolling metal shutter was pulled down, and a paper fluttered on it. I went to investigate. The note in slanted cursive read Back soon! but gave no indication of when the writer—presumably Brigitte—had left.
I felt relieved, yet knew I couldn’t avoid her forever. The town and food community were both too small for that. If I saw her return, I’d stop by and try one of her pancake crepes. Or maybe I’d have another kind of treat. With Napoleon gone, food carts flourished. On the southwest corner, little Mexico had popped up. Mouthwatering scents of grilled meat wafted from stands selling fajitas, tacos, and tortas, hearty sandwiches stuffed with grilled meats, guacamole, salsas, and even refried beans. On the far corner of the Plaza, I could see the red and white colors of the gourmet popcorn lady. Then, of course, there were the king and queen of food cart collegiality. Don and Crystal had pulled their carts to the very center of the Plaza, adjacent to the veterans’ memorial. A guy in a sombrero and sandwich board circled the stone obelisk, yelling, “Hot dogs! Cold drinks!”
I considered my next move. A dozing man occupied my usual spying bench, which was too close to Don’s cart anyway. Officer Bunny’s direct approach came to mind. I could boldly stride over and inform Don that he’d been spotted at the crime scene. I, however, was not Bunny. I lacked her muscles, authority, and bravery. I did not want to tip my hand to a possible murderer.
I fell in step behind a group of sixty-somethings in flashy turquoise jewelry and leather fringe coats. The group, chatting loudly, headed to the taco cart and debated what tacos al pastor contained. I bit my tongue in order to blend in. Usually I’d have jumped in and recommended the dish of tender pork marinated in spices and pineapple before grilling. The pineapple, I’d learned from Flori, contains an enzyme that tenderizes the meat. Chemistry was never my favorite subject in school, but I knew delicious food alchemy when I tasted it.
I let them move on to the question adovada and acted like a customer patiently waiting her turn. In actuality, I was watching Don out of the corner of my eye, waiting for some clue. I got nothing except a stomach calling for the adovada, pork simmered in red chile sauce.
Don, meanwhile, was acting like any hot dog entrepreneur. He dished up dogs. He laughed with customers. He dropped some change into the Save Linda jug. The group in front of me decided on chicken-lime tacos, a safe yet tasty choice. I had to choose too. Find another place to blend in? Confront Don? Order a taco? I let my eyes wander to the menu. Luckily for my health-food regime, a skateboarder bumped my elbow just as I was justifying adovada as a light afternoon pick-me-up.
“Hey!” I said to the teen’s departing slouched shoulders. His jeans sagged down his butt, and his hair was inky black and spiky like Celia’s. I cringed as he barely missed crashing into a baby carriage and a trembling Chihuahua. Maternal righteousness filled me. My daughter would never be so rude. Anyway, she was in school right now, diligent about her studies.
Wasn’t she?
Skateboard kid jumped his board off the curb and came to a floundering halt by a picnic bench, where similarly attired teens lounged. The half-dozen heads featured the same black, spiky hair, except for one orange and another streaked with orange. Could that be Celia and the mystery guy she’d waved to? No. I was imagining things. All the same, I gave up my spot in the taco line and started toward the picnic table.
“Lady!” a male voice exclaimed. “Watch out!”
I stumbled backward, realizing that I’d stepped blindly into the street and traffic. A horn blared and a truck the size of a brontosaurus roared by.
“Thanks,” I called to the man who’d saved me from another brush with vehicular crushing. I couldn’t tell if he heard me. He was heading up the sidewalk toward the center of the Plaza. Toward Don, I realized, but that’s not what sent the jolt up my spine. My savior was tall and gangly with wavy red hair. Gerald Jenkins Junior, the guy who found the cockroach in Linda’s tamale, and who was either nice, according to Addie, or corrupt like his father, as I suspected.
I started to follow him before I remembered the teens. Which did I want to know more? What Junior was up to, or whether my daughter was ditching school? I chose, as always, Celia. Turning away from Junior, I moved behind a tree. The teens were decamping from the picnic table in a tight but disorganized cluster. I held my breath when I realized they were moving my way. What if Celia was among them and caught me spying? I would still be the one in the right, I reassured myself. Or I could fake bird-watching again. I peeked out from behind my tree post. The teens were bad-mouthing each other in a way they seemed to enjoy but would have mortified me at their age. Skateboard guy passed. So did the orange-hair kid I recognized as the guy I’d seen outside Celia’s school. He didn’t look my way, being occupied teasing a girl with nose piercings. None of them seemed to notice me, and none—to my relief—was Celia.
I took a deep breath and felt guilty for letting my suspicions slip into my family life. I owed Celia a treat. An afternoon at the movies or a night out for pizza. I could still hear the teens’ harsh laughter as I turned back to Junior Jenkins. Him, I didn’t feel bad suspecting.
Junior stepped into line at Don’s hot dog cart. He shifted from sneaker to sneaker, hands stuffed deep in baggy cargo pants pockets, shoulders twitchy.
Who’s that nervous about buying a hot dog? He had to have other motives. My heartbeat sped up as I got in line behind him. Lacking a disguise, I got out my cell phone, let my hair fall over my eyes, and pretended to text.
“Next dog fan, step right up!” Don boomed. “What’ll it be, pardner?”
“Whatever,” Junior mumbled.
“Yes, sir, frito pie fiesta, coming right up! Special of the day! Extra hot sauce!” Don responded, as if Junior had placed an actual order.
I dared glance up. Junior, like his dad, wore clothes a little too large. He tugged up a baggy shirt, dug in his back pockets, and extracted a folded manila envelope. Don handed over the dog, piled high with Fritos, chopped onions, and chili con carne. Junior, instead of paying, thrust the envelope at Don, dropped the hot dog back on the counter, and hurried away.
Don shoved the envelope under his counter and pushed the hot dog to the side. “Up next, what’ll it be young lady? Hot dogs for a hot—” He looked up, recognized me, and frowned before quickly recovering. “Ah, Rita, my favorite Midwest cowgirl. What can I get for you? Dog on the range? Chile-charged challenge?”
Junior was moving fast. He was almost to the other side of the Plaza. I didn’t have time to wait for a dog, and I certainly didn’t have time to eat one.
“Oh, darn it,” I said, patting my pockets. “I forgot my wallet.” I started to go.
“No trouble,” Don said. “Not for one of my favorite customers. I’ll spot you. Pay me in one of Flori’s famous chocolate muffins. Here, have some Fritos while you wait.” He tossed a packet of corn chips at me.
“Ah . . . I ah . . .” I stuttered, grasping for an excuse. I went with my real excuse. “Gotta go,” I said, leaving the chips by the Free Linda jar. I took off at a near jog, fearful of looking back.
Don’s voice followed at my heels. “Devil dogs
! Who wants to dance with the devil?”
I’m no professional spy, by any means, and it’s not like I’ve had tons of experience tailing people. However, in my humble opinion, Santa Fe has to rank among America’s top tailing towns. There are always lots of tourists, for one thing. Tourists mill around, often in big, slow-moving groups. They stop to gaze in windows and consult maps. Around here, a lot of visitors and locals alike also sport big hats of the sun-blocking and Western varieties, good for hiding behind. Better yet, Santa Fe is literally plastered with adobe. Adobe walls with decorative nooks and buttresses make fabulous covert stops. So do the covered walkways, or portales, attached to buildings ringing the central Plaza.
All in all, I felt pretty good about my ability to tail Addie’s friend Junior. He took the route I’d chosen when fleeing the News 6 cameraman, straight to the shaded walkway along the Palace of the Governors. At the corner, he slowed, stuck in a small crowd gathering around an elderly lady selling piñon nuts. I hovered behind the other onlookers, momentarily distracted. Piñons were on my shopping list. The woman was saying that she harvested on land of her Pueblo ancestors, shaking the nuts from the cones of the squat pines that dotted the hills. I’d love to buy some piñons from a local collector. She held up a dark-colored nut, explaining that for each pinkie-nail-sized prize, she removed the hard outer shell by hand. Now I understood why the local nuts cost so much. I moved closer, tempted to buy a packet. Then I noticed that Junior was on the move, jaywalking across Washington Avenue.
I gave up on pine nuts and jogged across the street. Junior had stopped up the block to check his phone, so I slipped behind a display of chile ristras outside a gift shop. Flori once told me how her grandmother strung dozens of ristras in the fall, enough to cover the family’s chile needs until the next harvest. The general rule was that each person would eat his or her height in the spicy staple. Flori laughed, saying her family loved chiles so much, they had to double or triple that figure.
Peeking through a round pepper wreath, I saw that Junior was on the move again and heading toward a place I considered my territory: the public library. Was he meeting someone else? Another handoff? Despite Addie’s nice words for Junior, I’d already judged him and guessed he wasn’t stopping by for a new book. I slowed, confident that I’d find him outside. But Junior wasn’t out front. He also wasn’t waiting at the nearby light or heading to the gelato shop across the street. I hustled back to the library and went inside, panting too loudly.
Once in the main foyer, I took a deep breath. The library always calmed me. I liked visiting the closet-sized space where volunteers sold used books for a dollar. I loved the surprises in the new acquisitions section and flipping through old favorites in the grand reading room that housed the New Mexican and Southwestern collection. The reading room was the stuff of my library fantasies, from its dark wood ceiling and tables to the glass cabinets filled with bibliotreasures. It’s where I found Junior, taking a seat at one of the sturdy wooden tables. High above, chandeliers made of punched and painted tin—better than any crystal bobbles—hung from carved wooden beams. Desk lamps with dark metal shades stood on each table. Junior switched his on and, to my chagrin, opened a book.
Quiet readers and laptop users claimed most of the other seats. I approached Junior’s table and made an Is this seat taken? gesture. He smiled and nodded. Nice, but I wouldn’t withdraw my negative judgment simply because he had good library manners. I recalled him maligning Linda, brandishing the tainted tamale for all to see.
As I sat, I realized that I had no book. I resisted the urge to peruse the shelves. I wasn’t here for pleasure, unlike Junior, who seemed engrossed in a book about New Mexican petroglyphs.
“Neat stuff,” I whispered, nodding toward his book.
Junior’s head remained buried behind the book. His eyes lifted long enough for him to grunt an affirmation.
I couldn’t blame him. I wouldn’t want some stranger bugging me in the library. A more direct approach was needed.
“You’re Junior Jenkins, right?” I asked. Taking his frown as affirmation, I continued. “I know about your dad’s ‘business’ and that you planted that cockroach in Linda Santiago’s tamale.”
The petroglyph tome was lowered. Junior’s cheeks burned as red as his hair. Was he mad or shy? I settled on ashamed, which he should be. He’d helped shut down Linda’s business and position her as a murder suspect.
“I don’t handle Dad’s so-called business,” he said. “You have a problem, take it up with him.”
Ah, now this was something. “No, you tell me. Who’s your father blackmailing? Tell me or I’ll call the police.” I was bluffing. I had nothing.
“Leave me alone, lady,” he said, and not in a whisper. “This is a library!”
A woman at the next table scowled from behind purple horn-rimmed glasses. “The library!” she whispered for emphasis.
Junior, sensing support, added, “Yeah, stop harassing me!”
Horn-rimmed woman made a huffy sound, and other heads bobbed in affirmation. My attempt at a friendly smile worked on neither the woman nor Junior, who pointedly raised his book to block me out. The back cover featured the outline of a hand, one of the common symbols carved and painted by ancient peoples throughout the Southwest.
Risking further reading-room ire, I whispered, “I know you took part, Junior. You and your father were in cahoots with Napoleon and now he’s dead. Murdered! What do you know about that?”
Junior jerked his head back. “I didn’t have anything to do with that! You work with Addie, don’t you? Well ask her about me. She’ll tell you. I’m a musician and an archeologist.” His outburst faltered. “Or I will be, soon as I get through school.”
A librarian walked by the doorway, eyes scanning the room. I fell silent, waiting for her to leave before I resumed my questioning. “I saw you hand that envelope to Don Busco. What was in there? Is your dad blackmailing Don? Junior, if you have evidence that can clear Linda, you have to take it to the police. Addie will say the same thing.”
He slammed his book down. “Leave me alone!” he cried, his voice echoing across the cavernous room. “And don’t bad-mouth me to Addie! I mean it!”
Heads turned. The lady in the horn rims stood. “I’m getting security,” she announced.
“No—” I started to say, but she was already marching to the door with Junior close behind her. I jumped to my feet, causing my chair to tip into a man working on his computer.
“Careful!” he snarled.
Suddenly the silent reading room became of cacophony of chastisement. “Take it outside lady!” “Stop bothering people.” “Shhhhh!”
I fled more than followed Junior, and ran when I saw reading-room lady pointing me out to a bulky security guard. Bolting out the back exit, I hid behind an SUV in the parking lot. My heart thumped and a truly terrifying prospect struck me. What if I’d become a wanted person in one of my favorite places? I pictured myself sneaking into the stacks wearing sunglasses and one of Addie’s wigs. It was a dismal thought. I slumped against the SUV, feeling defeated, but only for a moment. My touch triggered the behemoth vehicle’s alarm. Lights flashed, the horn blared, and a siren screamed. I ran as fast as my jogging-sore legs allowed to the nearest gelato shop.
Chapter 17
I slunk back to Tres Amigas a little after the lunch rush and volunteered for hazard duty as penance for missing work and disrupting the library. Deseeding Flori’s extra-hot chiles required gloves. I added a plastic apron and wished I had a pair of Cass’s goggles. My eyes watered from spicy pepper fumes, a dangerous situation because I kept catching my chile-contaminated hands reaching to wipe them. After preparing more than enough peppers for the hot chile cheeseburgers and salsas, I stepped outside for fresh air. That’s when I spotted the official vehicle coming our way.
“Heath inspector!” I yelled, rushing back into the kitchen. “Jenkins Senior! All hands on deck. I mean, all hairnets on!”
I adjusted
my own net, strung one as a beard covering on grumbling Juan, and doubled up the plastic coverings on Addie’s wig. By the time Jenkins Senior slouched in, we in the kitchen looked more like crazed surgeons than cooks.
“Inspector,” Flori said, holding up her gloved hands as if preparing to operate on a plate of enchiladas. “What can we do for you?”
He snapped on his own gloves and smirked. “Time for your inspection.”
He’s taking a magnifying glass to our salt shakers,” I reported, spying from the kitchen. “He swabbed the mariachi players.” Most of our customers had left, opting for doggy bags when they saw the gloved man combing over the café. A few others had relocated to the patio.
Flori, her face hovering over a pot of posole, made tsk-tsk sounds. “Silly man. He’s making a show, that’s all.”
A show we’d have on video if he tried to plant anything. I’d instructed Addie to follow him with her cell phone set to video. She was currently shooting from a crouched position, seemingly getting an artsy, edgy shot.
“That’s it!” I heard her say. “Nice! Good angle. You want, we can stop and powder your shiny forehead? What about that red nose? No?”
“Not good,” Juan said. He sat on a stool sucking red juice through a straw, his protective beard and hair coverings scrunched in a puffy ring around his forehead.
“Not good at all,” I agreed. I could have used a drink. A margarita would do, but it was way too early. “Is that one of Crystal’s juices? What flavor?” I asked Juan.
“Raspberry mint,” he said. “Free like yesterday, except then I got strawberry.”
