by Ann Myers
I explained that Dalia had sent me up to cue the devil.
He rolled his eyes at Dalia’s name. “Your wacky neighbor’s into devils now? No, I don’t want to know. Just tell me why she didn’t come up here herself.”
“She’s helping her sister—half sister—Judith Crundall run Las Posadas,” I said. “Dalia was in charge of the donkey, who saw fry bread and took off. The first devil didn’t appear on schedule so she had me check. I was going to run right back down and watch Celia.”
Manny grumbled about stepping in donkey droppings outside. Then he asked, “So you turned on these lights and saw him right away?”
“No, I didn’t know about the light switches. I had my key-chain flashlight and was looking around. I smelled something right before I found him. Sulfur. I was waiting for the police when an old lady appeared and flicked on the lights.”
Manny raised an eyebrow. “An old lady? That wouldn’t be your meddling friend Flori, would it?”
Manny never would have dared say that if Flori was around. My octogenarian friend might play the old-lady card to get her way—and discounts—but she hates to be called old and she’s no fan of Manny. She once ran him out of Tres Amigas, swinging a tortilla press. I suspect Manny’s a little scared of her.
“I think I’d recognize Flori,” I said, letting some sarcasm seep in. “This woman was about Flori’s age, but she was hunched and dressed in black, with a shawl over her head. She turned on the lights and went straight over to . . .” I felt bad calling the dead man Satan or dead guy. “She went over to the unfortunate deceased and called him the devil. El diablo.”
Manny made a show of looking around for the missing woman. “Sulfur? The devil? An old hag in a shawl? You sure you didn’t imagine this, Rita? I mean, the air here is already thin for you nonnatives.”
Through a clenched smile, I assured Manny that I didn’t imagine the woman or the smell and I was perfectly adjusted to the altitude. “Why don’t I talk to Bunny?” I suggested. “Is she working tonight?” Manny’s bodybuilder partner, Bunny, was as serious as her muscles, and she was a whole lot more understanding than my ex.
Manny reported that Bunny had taken time off for a family holiday reunion. “She’s on a Caribbean cruise,” he added in a disgusted tone.
An image of Bunny doing chin-ups above a clear, blue sea popped to mind. Lucky her. Unlucky me. I told Manny that I’d better go check on our daughter.
“Not yet,” Manny said. “I sent a deputy over to guard her, and I may have more questions. I want this wrapped up before those Albuquerque news stations get ahold of it. Wouldn’t they eat this up? A holiday murder featuring Satan and Santa in our quaint little capital? Stay here.” He stalked off to boss around his colleagues.
I agreed with wrapping this up quickly. The safety of Santa Fe was one of my main talking points to Mom. How was I going to explain a dead devil? I could try to say nothing, like I had in the past. When my dear friend and landlord had been killed, for instance, I’d told Mom of his death. However, I hadn’t gone into the details of me finding bodies and confronting killers. A thousand miles makes such omissions easier. It’s not like I’d been lying, per se. I was trying not to worry and upset her. I knew Mom wouldn’t see it that way.
“Rita? What is going on up here?” Mom stood in the doorway, hands on her hips.
Speak of the devil. I raised my hand in a lame wave.
Beside Mom, Flori slipped off her earmuffs and snowsuit hood. She brandished knitting needles in both fists and had the stance of someone looking for a fight. Dalia and the redheaded woman I’d seen walking Sidekick squeezed past them. The young woman’s long hair fell beyond her shoulders, and her geeky-chic black-rimmed glasses slipped to the end of her nose as she scanned the roof. “Is it him?” she asked anxiously. “Is it Barton?”
I wanted to reassure her, yet she’d taken off, evading two patrolmen on her way to the body. Mom, eyes wide, looked from me to the dead devil and back. I shrugged and gave her my best “sorry” face.
“Get these people out of here!” Manny bellowed. Recognizing Mom, he nodded in greeting. Mom beamed back. She’s always had a soft spot for Manny, another result of my failure to communicate. Along with bodies and a boyfriend, I also hadn’t told Mom about Manny’s chronic philandering. Instead, I’d said we’d “grown apart.” It was my fault that Manny remained on Mom’s Christmas and birthday card lists.
A stocky female officer with a round face and flushed cheeks took charge of holding back Mom and Flori. Her outstretched arms wouldn’t stop Flori if she really wanted to snoop. I bundled my coat tight and went to join them before Flori got any sleuthing ideas.
“What is going on here?” Mom repeated, aiming her most forceful school librarian voice at the woman in uniform.
The deputy put her arms down and raised her shoulders to her chin. “Don’t ask me,” she said in an apologetic tone. “A murder, I’d say. See this lady coming up here in the green coat? If she finds a body, it’s likely a murder.” She pointed at me, in case there was any confusion about the body finder in the fashionable but not-warm-enough wool coat.
So much for any hope of glossing over the situation. “Not really—” I said, but Flori was already agreeing.
“Rita has a knack, doesn’t she?” Flori said proudly. “A real talent.” She tucked her knitting needles back into her snowsuit. Her pink earmuffs were looped around one arm.
Mom, lips pursed, turned her disapproving gaze to me. “A knack? Bodies? What have you been keeping from me, Rita? It takes me coming all this way to hear you’re dating a criminal lawyer and, well, now this!” She waved her arms to encompass the rooftop crime scene.
I protested. “I didn’t kill him, and it’s not like it happens every day, Mom.”
“Rita’s so modest,” Flori said.
The deputy nodded. “Right? She finds ’em pretty regularly, doesn’t she? When was the last time? Wasn’t it a holiday too? We had a betting pool going at the station about when she’d do it again. I said it’d be sooner.” She frowned at me, the inconsiderate chef who should have produced a body for Thanksgiving or Labor Day.
Flori supplied the date of my last corpse encounter. “Cinco de Mayo,” she said. “Early May,” she clarified for my mother. “See, it’s actually been quite a while since we investigated anything of real importance. Well except for that little missing person case we had over the summer and a few minor tailing jobs in the fall.”
The deputy agreed that it had been a while between bodies. “It’s not like we get that many murders,” she persisted. “So it’s exceptional that this lady found another and on a holiday too.” She turned to me. “When do you think the next one will be, just between us? You get an inkling, you should call me. Ask for Deputy Davis. I’ll tell the switchboard to put you right through.”
“No next one,” I said quickly under Mom’s disapproving scowl.
“Groundhog Day is coming up,” Flori said. “Valentine’s Day and Easter too, but those are lovely, special holidays. Let’s hope nothing bad happens. Oh, and there’s Lent. You could give up finding bodies for Lent, Rita.”
If any good was coming out of this, it was that my sleuthing was coming out in an already miserable situation. Heck, maybe I should divulge everything to Mom, right here on the rooftop. What would I start with? The real reason Manny and I divorced? The romantic getaway Jake and I planned at his cabin on the Pecos River? The long-overdue library book with holds that I was purposefully keeping until I finished? No, I couldn’t go that far. Mom was already upset. She uncapped her water bottle and slugged a gulp like it was whiskey.
“Mom, why don’t you and Flori go downstairs?” I said in my best soothing voice. “Call or text Celia and let her know what happened. She’ll wonder why she didn’t see any of us.”
Mom snapped out of her mute horror. “What am I supposed to tell her? That her mother found a dead man? How is the poor child supposed to react?”
“She’s probably used to
—” Deputy Davis started to say.
“She’ll be fine,” I interrupted firmly. “She’s a strong girl. Go check on her, and I’ll meet you all later. This is terrible and tragic, but it won’t affect our Christmas.” I said the last part with emphasis, hoping Flori caught my drift and didn’t say anything more about investigations.
My elderly sleuthing companion winked at me. “Rita’s right, Helen dear. We are all way too busy for an investigation. Christmas is for family and rejoicing.”
The two patrolmen approached with the redheaded woman and Dalia.
“It’s not him,” the redhead said, exhaling her words and righting her askew glasses. “Not Barton. I was afraid when I heard . . .” She laughed nervously. “I mean, he’s kind of a tough boss but I didn’t want him dead.”
Dalia patted the woman’s arm and introduced her as Shasta Moon, Barton’s temporary assistant and an archeology graduate student from Albuquerque.
“Well, who is the poor devil, then?” Flori demanded.
“Yeah, who?” Deputy Davis asked.
Relief was my first reaction to Dalia’s answer, followed by guilt for feeling relieved.
“Francisco Ferrara,” Dalia said, tugging her layers of woven and lace shawls close. “He works—worked—for my sister doing handyman jobs and gardening around her property. I have no idea why he was here instead of Barton. Perhaps you should try calling Mr. Hunter, Shasta.”
I didn’t recognize the man’s name. That’s where my relief came in. No emotional tug of friendship would draw me into this case. Plus, the police seemed to have it wrapped up. Manny himself was dramatically cuffing Wyatt Cortez. My ex glanced our way, checking that we noticed his takedown of a weeping St. Nick.
Mom certainly appreciated his efforts. She clasped her hands together. “Thank goodness! Manny always knew how to fix things.”
I held in my groan. Manny, a fixer? The man’s only DIY skill involved masses of duct tape.
Dalia was looking too. “Is that Wyatt Cortez they’re arresting? Oh, poor Lorena. Well, the arrest likely won’t stick if he already has Jake Strong on his side.” She smiled and repeated Jake’s tagline, “The Strong Defender.”
“Jake Strong?” Mom asked. “That’s your lawyer friend, Rita? I haven’t been properly introduced.”
“Yes, well, Jake seems busy,” I said. “We should go. We can meet at a better time.”
Mom, however, was taking a cue from Mr. Peppers. She bowled past Deputy Davis to take up a position by the hotel doors. I followed.
“Ah, Mom, meet Jake,” I said as the unlikely trio of Santa, cop, and cowboy lawyer passed us. A uniformed officer trailed a few steps behind holding Satan’s pitchfork, now wrapped in clear evidence plastic.
Jake stepped out of the procession to greet us. “It is my sincere pleasure to meet you, Ms. Lafitte,” he said, tipping his Stetson, a move that always sets my heart a-flutter.
Mom looked unmoved, although her Midwest politeness compelled her to issue a tight-lipped “Likewise.”
I jumped in with stress-induced perkiness. “Yep, Jake, we’re going for hot chocolate, like we planned. I don’t suppose, you want to . . .”
I wasn’t surprised when he bowed out. “I so wish I could, ladies, but it seems I have a new client.” He twisted up the corner of his lip. “Guess I should be careful what I wish for.”
Inside the building, the elevator dinged. Jake touched his hat and strode away to keep up with Manny and Wyatt.
Flori and Dalia were chatting, discussing details of the dead man. Shasta had stepped aside and was tapping on her phone. In a scandalized whisper, Mom said to me, “Really, Rita. He’s an ambulance chaser?”
“There’s no ambulance, yet!” I protested, sticking my proverbial foot in deeper. What’s worse than an ambulance chaser? A murder whisperer who shows up before the police and EMTs. I was about to clarify that Jake had rushed to my aid, not to defend a killer.
Mom, however, had already moved on to her main argument. “You should come home, Rita. Things like this don’t happen in Bucks Grove.”
They might if I moved back.
Chapter 5
The next morning, I woke to a sofa bed spring jabbing my ribs and cat claws methodically kneading my head. I squinted at the alarm clock balanced on the sofa arm: 5:59. With a groan, I switched off the alarm moments before it was set to blare. Hugo mewed and rubbed his furry chin on my forehead. His breath smelled fishy. In the kitchen, cupboard doors thumped closed.
Swinging my feet to the chilly floor, I folded up my quilt and the bed, which disappeared into the sofa frame with a sharklike snap. Then I put on slippers, tightened my robe, and prepared to face Mom. Last night over cocoa, Mom had shut down any speculation about the dead devil by Celia and her friends. Talk of the newly deceased was not appropriate for youngsters, Mom contended. Now, however, Mom and I would be alone, and unlike me, she’s always sharpest in the morning. My only hope was that she’d hold off grilling me until I had some coffee.
Mom greeted me innocently enough. “How did you sleep, dear? I hope you weren’t too uncomfortable on that couch. I wish you’d let me sleep there.” Mom was fully dressed, her hair and makeup perfect.
“I slept great!” I lied. I’d never admit that under its common gray cushions, the foldout was a medieval torture device. I wasn’t about to mention my nightmares either. In my pre-caffeinated state, I could almost imagine that the events of last night had been a bad dream. Had I really discovered a dead devil and a killer Santa? A warped version of “The Twelve Days of Christmas” popped into my head. On the first day of Christmas, my true love gives to me, one devil dying . . .
Mom cut in with another, albeit more minor, nightmare. “We’re out of coffee.”
I gaped at the empty coffeepot.
My panic was short-lived. Mom held up a wrinkled bag, “I found some whole beans at the back of your cupboard. I didn’t want to wake you with the grinder. You needed your rest. I could hardly sleep myself.”
Hugo jumped on a kitchen chair beside me, circled, and flopped so that I could pet his soft butterscotch speckled belly. I scooped him up and held him on my shoulder. Here it comes, I thought. Hang on Hugo. “You couldn’t sleep? Was it the bed?” I asked, delaying the inevitable. “I have a faux featherbed topper if the mattress is too firm.” Hugo purred in my ear as if he understood. He loved to pounce on featherbed puffs.
Mom straightened her cardigan and her already rigid back. “The bed is fine. I kept worrying about you, Rita. That nice policewoman said you found bodies? Flori says you’re a sleuth? You both do this? Doesn’t Flori have bad knees? My goodness, she’s in her eighties, isn’t she? She should be home, retired and knitting.”
Oh, Flori was knitting all right. Hugo crawled across my back to my other shoulder, using his claws as climbing hooks. I took it as a message that I should remain sharp. “Flori and I have helped out some folks with problems,” I said carefully, neglecting to specify that a few of those folks had been murdered or wrongfully accused of murder. “We happened to be in the right place at the right time.” Or the wrong place at the wrong time. I was again neglecting key aspects, like being in such places because Flori and I were tailing suspects or luring out killers. I attempted a lighthearted chuckle and reached for the coffee bag. The few tablespoons of ancient beans inside resembled gravel and smelled like dust.
Mom thrust her fists to her hips and shook her head disapprovingly. “Really, Rita! What is going on in this town? It’s not right. First you have a devil in the Christmas play—”
“Three devils,” I mumbled, placing a wild-eyed Hugo back on his chair. He rolled and batted his paws through the rungs. I stuck my nose in the disappointing coffee bag again. Even if grinding could revive some flavor in the beans, there weren’t enough to make a cup. I’d have to run to the store or across the street to Dalia’s, though she probably only stocked barley tea.
“Three devils!” Mom said, rolling her eyes heavenward. “One of whom gets kil
led and you find him and the police have a betting pool on you . . . Rita, darling, you’re a cook! Why haven’t you told me about any of this? Your sister tells me everything. What else are you keeping from me?”
Before I could respond, Mom answered for me. “A man friend, that’s what! How could you not tell me you were dating a lawyer? Here I was, being so encouraging to nice Albert Ridgeland. He’s always prompt, and dentistry is such a good, predictable profession. Safe. He even has an RV, Rita, and a summer house on Lake Michigan. Imagine how pleasant . . .”
I’d just tossed the old beans in the trash. Now I imagined fishing out the bag and popping the beans straight. There had to be some caffeine left in them, and goodness knows I needed a boost. I felt like a chastised teenager again. Memories flashed back of the time I crumpled the bumper of Mom’s Buick not a week after getting my driver’s permit. She’d been upset, but like now, she was mainly worried about my well-being. Then I thought about my teenager. Celia shrugged off problems with a bored “Whatever.” “Whatever” wouldn’t work on my mother.
I went for my tried-and-true method. Deflection. “I know, how about breakfast at Tres Amigas?” I said, as brightly as I could in the face of Mom’s scowl. “We could both use some fresh coffee, and the blue corn waffles are amazing.”
Going out for breakfast is not Mom’s thing. As I expected, she resisted, but at least she was focused on another subject.
“I don’t know what I’d eat,” she said. “You know I can’t tolerate beans for breakfast or chiles or anything odd.”
“We make a lovely granola, Mom, with cinnamon, allspice, cloves, and ginger. It’s wonderful. Like a healthy Christmas cookie, and you can add yogurt and fresh fruit.”
Mom’s scowl softened slightly. “We shouldn’t leave Celia here alone, what with all these murders going on.”
Any correction that it was “only” one murder at the moment sounded crass. “Celia sleeps late when school’s out. She won’t get up until ten at the earliest. We’ll lock the doors and leave her a note.”
