by Ann Myers
I forced myself to study Don and his surroundings. “But how?” I asked. “He’s lying about even with his hot dog cart. If a car or truck hit him, wouldn’t it have struck the cart too?” The cart appeared to be undamaged except for a few dings, likely from normal use.
Flori switched off her light and we stood in silence. Above, the sky was turning a steely gray. A new day that Don would never see. I felt a pang of sorrow.
“Maybe he wasn’t standing right here,” Flori said quietly. “Maybe he was hit and thrown backward. That’s why the tire marks stop up there and the cart’s okay.”
I closed my eyes and imagined the scene, except it wasn’t Don I saw. It was the red truck speeding toward me. I’d been on a narrow, curved street and wearing headphones. Manny would have deemed my death a hit and run. But to speed down a driveway, to strike a big man with enough force to kill him? That couldn’t be called anything but murder.
When I opened my eyes, Flori had disappeared. I whispered her name. A soft turkey call sounded, which I traced to Don’s back door.
“Look, the door’s been left unlocked,” Flori said. “You say your phone’s inside? Why don’t you run and get it while I call the police. I’ll call the non-emergency number to give you some time.” She handed me something soft. “Gloves. You didn’t leave fingerprints before, did you?”
Brigitte and I had worn gloves, black latex. Georgio had insisted on that. I donned Flori’s fuzzy knit gloves and reached for the doorknob, trying to talk down my fear. Don wasn’t about to jump out and confront me. And the murderer was likely long gone. I heard Flori greeting the police station operator. She seemed to be establishing that they were related through some distant aunt and great-niece-twice-removed manner. Pretty soon the operator would give up on deciphering the genealogy and send police cars barreling our way. I took a deep breath and stepped inside.
I knew my way down the hallway. This time I didn’t linger or peek in other rooms. I went straight to Don’s office and grabbed my phone, clutching it in a white-knuckle grip so it wouldn’t get away from me again. I was about to hurry back when I noticed something odd with the room. Was it neater? Papers that once covered the desk in the random scatter of autumn leaves now stood in loose stacks. A clean spot on an otherwise dusty shelf suggested that Don’s printer had been moved.
I counted myself lucky that Don—or his killer—hadn’t found my phone.
The sun lit up the morning sky in pink streaks by the time the first patrol car arrived. More followed, along with a grumpy Manny, his partner Bunny, and various dog walkers and gawking neighbors. Flori and I waited at the end of the driveway, as instructed by Manny.
“What are you doing here?” was the first thing my ex had asked, or rather, demanded. He’d stood close and I’d detected a whiff of perfume. Manny’s date night must have gone well. No wonder he was grumpy to get pulled out of bed. Plus, Manny was never a morning guy. We did have that in common.
“Rita and I were out for a Sunday morning walk,” Flori said. “My headlamp lit him up. We called right away, and I had the nicest chat with my grand-niece-twice-removed who works your phones.”
Manny, of course, didn’t buy Flori’s story. He stomped off to supervise the crime scene and search the house.
The next man to show up didn’t believe us either, but at least he was a lot nicer about it. Jake pulled in behind the silent ambulance. Flori had called him while we were waiting for the police to arrive.
“Do I even want to know what you two were doing?” Jake asked. I suspected that he’d hurried over. He lacked both his hat and his dog and was wearing jeans, a faded sweatshirt, and running shoes.
“No,” I said, staring at my shoes. I felt bad that I’d gotten so many people out of bed early on a Sunday morning. “You don’t want to know. But we didn’t do that.” I nodded toward the white sheet covering Don.
He smiled. “I didn’t think you had. Someone sure did, though. Kill him, I mean, and here you ladies are, right in the midst of it . . . again.”
My head hurt. I needed caffeine, a nap, and a normal life. I didn’t know what to say so I let Flori fill in the conversation with flirtatious small talk. She told Jake that he looked good, which was like telling the sun it was bright.
He tipped his chin in a bashful expression that only added to his good looks. “I doubt that. I didn’t have time to shave or have coffee, but thank you, Flori, all the same. You ladies are looking fine, as always.” He smiled and for a moment I fantasized about another breakfast date. His smile, however, quickly morphed into his lawyer face. “Please tell me that Linda was in no way involved in whatever you were doing.”
I exchanged a look with Flori. I would have pleaded the fifth.
Flori said, “Not directly. Of course, you know that we suspected Don of trying to run over Rita, and he threatened us. Or so we thought.”
Jake raised his eyebrows. “So, you came here before daylight to do what?”
I expected Flori to issue an evasive or flirtatious change of subject. Instead, my elderly friend dropped the whole truth. “We were looking for Rita’s cell phone. She dropped it in Don’s house when she broke in yesterday. Using professional door-entering equipment, mind you. Rita wouldn’t actually break anything. And she took along a friend for backup. No need to worry.”
Jake was rubbing his temple and saying, “Don’t tell me this.”
My faced burned. “Hypothetically broke in, she means, with a hypothetical lock-pick from a . . . er . . . lock enthusiast.”
“No, no,” Flori corrected. “For real she broke in. Rita and her colleague—who we can’t name—found a hidden stash of cash. An important clue, which she left where she found it.” Over Jake’s groan, she said, “And there’s more. Our associate, Addie, snapped a fine photograph of Don meeting with Gerald Jenkins Senior at a bar last night. Jenkins is the one the police should be looking at.”
I chimed in, eager to shift attention away from me and my crimes. “Addie will have more details, but it looked like Don and Jenkins were arguing.”
Jake held up a silencing finger and then used it to rub his brow. “Okay. Unofficial legal advice: don’t repeat what you just said. You can tell the police about the argument. Show them the picture and ask Addie to explain. But, please, let them find that cash on their own. Whatever you do, do not tell them you were breaking and entering and trespassing and any other illegal activities that I should not hear about if I am ever called as a witness.” He held my gaze. Then he lowered those gorgeous steel-blue eyes and leaned in close to my ear. “I still want that soufflé dinner you promised me, and it won’t happen if you’re in jail or my perpetual client. Lawyerly ethics and all.”
Jake left a few minutes later. He had appointments with coffee and then an early practice with his club basketball league.
Flori and I watched him stride to his car and drive away.
“I suppose I should apologize,” Flori said.
I was busy worrying in general and regretting the missed dinner date in particular. “For what?” I asked absentmindedly.
“You were right. Jake Strong is a man sensitive and confident enough to love a Cinco de Mayo soufflé,” Flori said with an appreciative chuckle. “Now, if you add in my chocoflan, that hot lawyer will be butter in your hands, Rita.”
Flori and I waited around for a long half hour before we could give brief statements to Bunny.
“And you were out simply walking?” Bunny said, disbelief obvious. “Before sunrise? Dressed in black, in a neighborhood where neither of you live?”
“Gets the blood flowing,” Flori said.
Bunny scowled. Manny reinforced her skepticism.
He leaned against the corner of Don’s house a few feet away. “Meddling, that’s what those two were up to.”
My ex had clearly gotten up on the wrong side of the bed. I might have felt sorry for him if he wasn’t being so petulant. Besides, I had myself to feel sorry for. I sure wasn’t having a great morning, althoug
h I had only myself to blame. If only I hadn’t dropped my phone. Or broken in to begin with. I felt that guilt was written across my face. Guilty of blaming a murdered man. Guilty of breaking and rebreaking into his house. Still, I didn’t believe that Don was entirely innocent.
I told Bunny about Gerald Jenkins Senior meeting with Don last night. “Jenkins nearly dies from poisoning. Then he gets out of the hospital and—still looking sick—goes to meet Don at a bar straightaway? And they argue? It’s suspicious, don’t you think? Our friend sent us a photo.”
Flori, after a few false starts with her cell phone, brought up the photo and handed the phone to Bunny.
Bunny tilted her head. “Is that a margarita and someone’s knee?”
I feared she was missing the blurriest but most important part of the photo. “No, there, those two shapes. They’re men arguing.”
Bunny returned Flori’s phone. “We’ll ask Mr. Jenkins about his activities, but there’s nothing illegal about visiting a bar.”
“Yeah, Rita,” Manny said petulantly. The long nights he spent at his favorite bars had sparked arguments during our marriage, especially after I’d spent long days with our infant daughter. I didn’t have the energy to argue with him. Luckily, his attention was back on the news van. Milan Lujan stepped out in a sky blue dress, looking freshly powdered and ready for action. Manny straightened his jacket.
Bunny puffed air out her bottom lip. “Why don’t you two come in and give formal statements later? Maybe you’ll hear more about Mr. Busco’s and Mr. Jenkins’s activities. Or something else relevant will come to mind, like what you were actually doing here.”
“Will do,” I said in my peppiest cheerleader voice, ignoring Bunny’s jibe. I grabbed Flori by the arm. “Time to go.”
We were nearly to my car when I heard a man’s voice. “Milan, it’s your anonymous informant. Hey! You two by the Subaru, wait up. Milan wants to interview you!”
I was glad Jake wasn’t around to hear my tires squeal.
Flori praised my driving. “Well done,” she said as we peeled down side streets. Once I was sure we were safe, I drove her home so she could change her burglar wear for church clothes. “We’re closer than ever,” she said.
I thought about this as I drove home. We were closer only because one of our main suspects was dead. I let myself in the casita, expecting Celia to still be asleep. She stood in the living room, wearing skull-printed pajamas. Hugo, perched on her shoulder, attacked a piece of her already spiky hair.
“Dad just called,” she said, her words stretched out with a yawn. “He says there’re some reporters who want to talk to you.”
Chapter 28
Later that morning I tried to take my mind off dead bodies by heading over to Victor’s place. I assessed the array of colorful sticky notes and hoped I was making the right choices . . . about everything. Three times in the last hour an unidentified caller had tried to reach my cell phone. Had Manny given Milan Lujan or her cameraman my number? Someone had. When I checked the messages, Milan, in perfect newscaster enunciation, asked to interview me. Off the record, she said. Or on the record, if I wanted some publicity for Linda’s cause. I silenced the ringer the fourth time she called and was ready to turn the phone off completely the next time it lit up. Then I noticed Linda’s name and number.
She started with an apology for calling and interrupting me. “Mama told me how you found poor Mr. Busco. He was such a nice man. Kind. We helped each other out, and he believed in my tamales. I’m so sorry he’s dead and that you found him, Rita. I hope you don’t get in any trouble. You have Celia to think of. You and Mama should be more careful.”
I reminded Linda that she also had children and grandchildren who needed her. “Don’s death is terrible, awful, so please don’t take this wrong, but maybe it’ll help you, Linda. The police will investigate new leads, which will hopefully take them away from you. They’ll find who really killed Napoleon, and the same person likely killed Don too.”
Linda murmured a prayer in Spanish. “I still feel sorry I got in that fight with Napoleon,” she said again.
“No one who truly knows you can think you had anything to do with his death,” I said. Except half the people who showed up for Flori’s free pancake breakfast, as well as Crystal, although was she pointing blame toward Linda to take suspicion off herself?
Linda, for once, was thinking of the positive. “People are being so nice to me. Brigitte Voll invited me to an event on the Plaza this afternoon. The food cart operators are holding a rally to show they’re standing together and not afraid.” Silence filled the air waves. Then Linda said, “That’s why I called. I know you’re busy, but could you go with me? I don’t want to go on my own, and I’m afraid if I invite Mama, she’ll make trouble.”
I told Linda I’d pick her up. Celia surprised me by wanting to come along. Although I tried to keep a neutral expression, I must have raised an eyebrow or widened an eyelid or exhibited some other hint of maternal amazement.
My daughter shrugged. “Yeah, whatever, I want to support Tía Linda.”
Linda was delighted to see Celia. “This is so nice of both of you!” she reiterated as I maneuvered into a parking spot a few blocks from the Plaza. “Brigitte told me that the rally will be small and quiet, but you never know. Look at that pancake breakfast Mama held. The one side of the room was pretty rowdy.”
Flori’s pancake breakfast, however, was no match for the crowd we found on the Plaza.
“Whoa,” Celia said as we rounded the corner and took in the throngs of people and carts. “Look at all the ‘Free Linda’ demonstrators over there and the food carts. Awesome!”
“Oh dear,” Linda said, scraping back her bangs nervously.
“It’s like a festival,” said Celia. She led the way. Linda and I followed, awed by the food-cart takeover of the Plaza. The carts encircled the veterans’ memorial and were offering up goodies from gourmet popcorn to tacos, fajitas, and hand pies. There was even a lady selling tamales.
“This way,” I said, hoping that Linda didn’t notice the tamales.
She already had. “Tamales,” she said wistfully. “How nice. Do you think we should try them? Look, she has a sweet one with dates and brown sugar like I make for Christmas.”
“Maybe later,” I said. “Look.”
I pointed toward the raised bandstand, where Crystal, poured into a strawberry-red dress, tested a microphone. Behind her an all-female mariachi band tuned their instruments. The musicians’ long black skirts skimmed the floor of the bandstand, weighted down with the signature silver buttons up their sides. Flori, when setting up her creepy mariachi mannequins, had explained that the traditional cropped jackets and silver- and embroidery-embellished costumes originated in the charro cowboy tradition in Mexico.
The crowd moved toward the bandstand. Linda, Celia, and I hung back, listening as Crystal tapped the microphone. With each “Test, test, test,” she increased the volume, until her voice boomed across the Plaza. A man with a video camera clambered up onto the stage. I recognized him as the News 6 camera guy. Milan Lujan had to be nearby. “Can I borrow your sunglasses?” I asked Celia, who was standing just in front of me. She handed them back without question.
Onstage, Crystal waved and yelled, “Hola,” her voice echoing off the buildings to the south. “We are here to remember our friend and colleague, Don Busco, brutally murdered.” She patted the black band on her right arm. “We remember him and call for the police to find his killer!” The mariachi band stepped up behind her and struck somber discordant chords.
The crowd applauded and Crystal continued, raising her voice even louder. “A killer is after us. A poisoner, too, targeting our food family.” She paused, looking out across the crowd. “That person, he—or she—could be here among us now.”
A few people looked our way, and I heard Linda’s name murmured. She edged closer to me. Celia’s shoulders stiffened.
The mariachi band strummed a few stanzas in the min
or key. Mariachi bands often give me chills, in a good way. I have similar responses to bagpipers and really amazing orchestras. Now I had goose bumps on top of creepy chills. The killer would be here. I was almost sure of it. He—or she, as Crystal said—was bold.
Crystal stepped up to the microphone again. “One of our own, Linda Santiago, has been accused of the murder of Napoleon, a man who made many of us mad enough to kill.” She looked out over the crowd and then waved our way. “Hello, Linda!” Linda ducked behind me, and Celia scooted back to help buffer her from staring eyes.
Raising her fist in the air, Crystal declared, “Don Busco believed in Linda, and now so do I! Linda had reason to kill Napoleon, but never Don. Now I know that Don was right. The police have made a mistake to focus on a good woman.”
One of the mariachi singers held up a sign. FREE LINDA!
Supporters in the crowd called out Linda’s name. I felt a nudge behind me and figured it was my chagrined friend. When I turned, however, I saw Brigitte.
“This is amazing,” she said. “Linda, you have so much support.”
Linda seemed to be shriveling before my eyes. “It’s okay, Linda,” I said comfortingly. “Crystal’s getting off the stage. Just nice mariachi music now.”
Except Crystal hadn’t relinquished her microphone yet. She was sticking it in front of the person I least wanted to hear from: Manny.
“Officer,” Crystal cooed. “We asked you here because we food carters are scared. Two of our own are dead. The food inspector has been poisoned. Is there a psychopath after us, like Don said? What can you tell us? Can you comfort us?”
I imagined that Manny would be more than happy to comfort pretty Crystal. He bestowed his sympathetic look on her and stepped up onto the stage, where he greeted the cute cello player by name.
“Citizens and food carters of Santa Fe,” Manny said, in a voice worthy of soap-opera drama. “We are narrowing in on our suspect right now. The vicious and cowardly perpetrator will be punished.” He repeated this in Spanish.
