A Bodkin for the Bride

by Patrice Greenwood

  “Yes, let’s.” I ate the last of my bread, resisting the temptation to grab another piece, and carried my dishes to the sink.

  “If we get a good start on your dress today, maybe we can finish it tomorrow,” Nat added.

  I nodded, still chewing.

  “You mean yours is done?” Manny said. “I want to see it!”

  Nat gave him a coy smile. “Not until the wedding.”

  He continued to pester her about it, playfully. She bantered with him in the best of cheer, and didn’t yield an inch. Finally he hugged us both and grabbed his denim jacket from a hook by the door.

  “I’m going to the hardware store. Need anything?”

  “No, thanks,” Nat said. “Be back by six if you want dinner.”

  “Yes, ma’am!” He kissed her cheek and headed out the door, whistling mariachi music.

  I checked my phone again, but there was no message. Nat gave me an amused look.

  “Expecting a call?”

  “Tony and I might go to a movie to—hic—tonight, but he’s not sure when he’ll be free. He’ll probably come by here.”

  “Ah.”

  We cut out the pieces for my dress, and I started to feel excited about it. Like Nat, I had admired these dresses all my life, and secretly longed to own one. Just handling the fabric was a sensory delight; the sapphire velvet was luxuriously soft and lustrous.

  Nat started putting the skirt together while I worked on the tunic. With hands busy, my mind was free to wander, and I wound up picking at the problem of Daniel Swazo’s knife once more.

  Why would there be bread on the knife? Assuming, for the moment, that the stuff on the knife was, in fact, bread.

  I thought about Mrs. Swazo’s breads, all the wonderful shapes she made. I remembered looking at them a week before, the morning Nat and I had gone looking for buttons. A scene clicked into my memory from that morning: the knotwork bread I’d admired.

  That was the last one. Sorry.

  Tommy Swazo had refused to sell me that loaf, but he’d sold it to the young man in jeans.

  Then this morning, another young man with a tattooed neck had approached Tommy’s table.

  Not today.

  I thought about the breads that had been on the table that morning. I hadn’t paid close attention; I’d been more focused on Mrs. Swazo and her grief. But I was pretty sure that there hadn’t been any of the knotwork loaves there today.

  Nor, in fact, had there been any on the table the previous week. Tommy had taken the loaf out from beneath the table when the man in jeans came up to him.

  That was the last one.

  I drew a long, deep breath.

  What if the meth was in the bread?

  My mouth went dry. Maybe Daniel had noticed the exchange. Maybe he’d found a moment to examine the loaves under the table. Maybe he’d slid his knife into one to confirm his suspicions.

  It was all supposition, but it fit. It fit better than anything else I could think of.

  Daniel Swazo had died as a result of being beaten. Had he confronted Tommy, leading to a fight?

  I had to talk to Tony.

  I finished a seam and set aside the blouse, then reached for my phone. Nat glanced up at me, then went back to work gathering a tier of the skirt. I sent a hasty text to Tony.

  Idea about knife. Need to talk.

  My nerves were buzzing with the urge to do something, so I stood and picked up my mug. “Want some more coffee?”

  “Sure,” Nat said, holding out her mug. “Cream and one spoon of sugar.”

  In the kitchen, afternoon shadows had already fallen, making the room seem chilly. I fixed our coffees and was turning to go back when something about the window caught my attention. I paused to look, and froze as I realized a man stood outside on the portal, looking in.

  Tommy Swazo.

  11

  I stifled a startled yelp. Coffee splashed across my hand.

  Swazo stared at me for an eternal second, during which I could not help thinking about those powerful arms raised in anger, those big fists thumping down on a surprised, smaller brother. He smiled—not a friendly smile—and stepped to one side, out of view, releasing me from paralysis.

  I put the mugs on the table and ran to the door to make sure it was locked. As I confirmed it, a thump fell against the heavy wood; it shook against my hands.

  Heart pounding, I peeked through the small, barred window high in the door. Swazo was striding away down the driveway.

  “Ellen?” Nat called from the living room. “Are you all right?”

  “Are all the doors locked?” I called back. “I’m OK, but there’s a man outside.”

  Nat’s footsteps hurried toward the kitchen. I grabbed a dish towel and dried my hands, trying not to shake.

  “Did he ring the doorbell?” Nat said as she joined me, frowning in concern.

  I shook my head. “I think he’s gone now. He w—hic—was standing outside the window, and when he saw me he left.”

  “Oh, Ellen!”

  “I think it was Daniel Swazo’s brother. He banged on the door and then went down the driveway.”

  “I’m calling the police,” she said, reaching for the phone.

  “Not 911. It’s not—hic—not an emergency.”

  “He was trespassing!”

  “But he’s gone now. Let me call ... I’d better call Detective Walters.”

  I would much rather have called Tony, but it wasn’t his case. Walters would want to know about Swazo’s trespassing.

  Nat offered me the phone, but I shook my head. “I don’t know his number. It’s on my cell.”

  “I have it here.” She took a business card from her bulletin board and handed it to me.

  My throat was dry. I took a swig of my coffee and tried to gather my thoughts.

  I shouldn’t mention the knife or what was on it. I was tempted to nudge Walters toward thinking about it, but that could be disastrous. I had to talk to Tony and let him be the one to raise the subject.

  OK. No knife. Just tell him Swazo was here.

  I swallowed some more coffee, then dialed Walters’s number. It went to voicemail. I left a brief message telling him about Swazo, mentioning that I’d seen him that morning at the flea market and leaving Nat’s number. I only hiccuped twice.

  As I hung up the phone, Nat gathered me into a hug. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  I laughed. “I like ghosts better.”

  “You’re trembling. Come and sit down.”

  We sat at the table and drank coffee. Gradually the tension in my shoulders relaxed. Outside, late afternoon shadows crept across the hillside and lengthened beneath the piñons.

  “He must have followed me here from the flea—hic—market,” I said. The thought made me unhappy; I’d been so adamant that Daniel had not followed us, and now his brother appeared to have done so. It weakened my position. I could imagine Detective Walters saying, “I told you so.”

  I wondered if Swazo had left any footprints on the portal. If he had, and if the police had found any footprints the day Daniel died, maybe they could match them. It was a long shot, but I got up to check.

  Nat followed me to the door. “Ellen?”

  “I’m just going to look at something.”

  If there were prints, I didn’t want Manny to walk across them when he got back. I unlocked the door and opened it.

  “Oh!”

  Stuck into the door’s center panel, right below the window, was a knife. Its handle was beautifully inlaid with stripes of turquoise and coral. One of Daniel’s.

  Behind me, Nat let out a gasp.

  “Don’t touch it,” I said. “Do you have a plastic bag?”

  “I’ll get one.” Nat stepped away and I heard her pull open a drawer.

  The knife looked familiar. It might have been on Mrs. Swazo’s table at the market that morning. Tommy must have helped himself.

  I swallowed, the implied threat sinking in. He was telling me to back
off.

  “Is this big enough?” Nat asked, holding out a food storage bag.

  I took it, wondering how to remove the knife without damaging any prints that might be on it. Maybe I could slide the bag over it, and pull on the blade...

  The sound of a motorcycle drew my attention to the street. A bike came down the hill and turned into the driveway.

  “Tony.” I exhaled relief. “Let’s wait. He’ll know what to do.”

  Tony parked by my car and swung off the bike, removing his helmet, which ruffled his short, dark hair. I caught my breath, struck anew by his good looks.

  His smile faded as he came up to the doorway and saw the knife. “What’s this?”

  “A warning,” I said. “Tommy Swazo was just here.”

  “Swazo?” He frowned. “That’s...”

  “The brother of the man I found la—hic—last week. We were about to put it in this.” I offered him the storage bag.

  He looked at it, then at me. “You’ve got the hiccups again?”

  “Still.”

  Tony’s expression sharpened with concern, then he sighed. “I’ll get an evidence bag. Don’t touch it.”

  Nat gently took the plastic bag from my hands. “I’ll make some more coffee.”

  I watched Tony retrieve a plastic bag with printing on it from one of the saddlebags on his bike. Gina’s recommendation that I get laid flashed through my mind, bringing a blush to my cheeks. He returned, took several photos of the knife with his phone, then carefully removed the knife from the door.

  Tony shot a glance at me as he pulled a marker out of his jacket pocket and wrote on the bag. “Tell me what happened.”

  I told him, describing Swazo’s appearance outside the window and the thump against the door as he departed. “I didn’t realize until now that it was a knife. Oh! I was going to check if he left footprints...”

  “If he did, they’re probably gone by now. Does Walters know about this?”

  “I called and got his voicemail. I left him a message.”

  “Hm.”

  “Come in and close the door,” Nat said. “Tony, would you like some coffee?”

  “Yes, but I need to call this in. Just take a sec.”

  I stepped in and Tony pulled the door closed, remaining outside. I watched through the window as he went back to his bike and locked the knife in the saddlebag, took out his phone and took a couple more photos of the door, then made a call. He paced in the driveway, restless as a caged jaguar. Finally he put the phone away and headed for the door. I opened it for him.

  He paused to finger the mark the knife had left, frowning. “Sorry about that.”

  “You didn’t do it. Come on in.”

  Nat clucked and fussed about settling us at the table with coffee. Tony took a long pull at his mug and then closed his eyes. “Oh, that’s good.”

  “Thank you,” Nat said. “Julio shared his source with me.”

  I took another swig of mine; I hadn’t recognized it as Julio’s Colombian, but maybe it was a different blend.

  “I requested a patrol for your house,” Tony told Nat. “They’ll come by a couple of times a day, and at night, for the next couple of weeks.”

  “Thank you,” Nat said, then glanced at me. “Are you doing the same for Ellen’s house?”

  “Swazo doesn’t know where I live,” I said.

  “Want to bet?” Tony said.

  I lifted my mug. I didn’t like it when he got cynical, and it certainly wasn’t any comfort.

  “He may know your name, from the police report. He’s seen you at the flea market ... twice?”

  I nodded.

  “And he probably knows you’re the one who found his brother. Don’t go back to the flea market.”

  “I won’t.” I thought fleetingly of Mrs. Swazo, feeling a rush of pity for her, but there was nothing I could do for her. Nothing except, perhaps, make sure Tommy got locked up. She might not consider that a favor.

  “Tony, I need to talk to you about the knife. Not this one—the one from last week.”

  “Too many knives around here.”

  “Yes. Well, I was thinking about that report.” I glanced at Nat, then decided she might as well know everything. If I couldn’t trust Nat, I couldn’t trust anyone.

  “That chemical analysis I ask—hic—asked you about a couple of days ago,” I said to her. “It was for what was on Daniel Swazo’s knife that was found in your driveway.”

  Nat tilted her head. “The one Dee said was meth?”

  “Yes. And she mentioned that the other things in the report sounded like food.” With a sidelong glance I saw Tony frowning, but he said nothing. I continued. “Well, I was thinking about it, and I realized it might be bread. You know that bread I brought from the flea market? Daniel Swazo’s mother baked it.”

  “Daniel and Tommy Swazo’s mother,” Tony said.

  “Yes. And the first time we went to the market, she wasn’t there. Tommy was selling her bread, and there was one—hic—shape he had under the table. He sold a loaf to a guy who came up, but he wouldn’t sell one to me. He said he was out, but I think that wasn’t true. There was a box under the table.”

  Tony’s chin rose and his brows drew together. “He’s hiding meth in his mother’s bread?”

  “I think so. I don’t have any proof, but it’s the only thing that makes sense. And Daniel was selling his knives right near Tommy’s table. If he suspected, he might have used his knife to check the bread. And if Tommy noticed...”

  “He might have beat the crap out of his brother.”

  “But why did Daniel follow us here?” Nat asked.

  “I don’t think he did,” I said. “Tommy must have dropped him on the frontage road. Daniel was looking for help, and this was the nearest house. Only he didn’t make it to the door.”

  Nat shook her head. “Poor boy.”

  I swallowed, turning back to Tony. “There was a man at the market this morning, with tattoos on his neck. Tommy told him ‘Not today.’ Mrs. Swazo was there, selling off Daniel’s knives.”

  Tony’s eyes narrowed. “I’d better call Walters.”

  “I did try. I didn’t mention the report.”

  “Good. Gonna have to figure out what to say to him. He won’t like that I gave it to you.”

  “Maybe you don’t have to tell him that.”

  “If he asks, I’ve got to tell him.”

  “Maybe he won’t ask?” The thought that I might get Tony in trouble worried me.

  He sat gazing at nothing, frowning slightly. I took advantage of his distraction to appreciate the clean lines of his face. Well, not entirely clean; it looked as if he hadn’t shaved in a couple of days. His jaw was tight and there were shadows under his eyes. A small, vertical crease had formed between his dark eyebrows. Apparently, he’d had about as much rest as I had in the past week.

  He noticed me watching him and met my gaze. The frown softened.

  “Don’t worry. If I have to tell Walters that I shared the report with you, it might pi—it might make him mad, but it won’t do any harm. You’re a consultant, remember?”

  I smiled, laughed a little, and hiccuped. Tony put his hand over mine, sending a tingle shooting up my arm.

  “This is helpful, OK? You’re doing good stuff, not bad stuff. Don’t worry.”

  His hand was warm. He curled his fingertips into my palm and squeezed.

  “I think you nailed this one. Probably he didn’t mean to, but I bet Tommy is the one who killed his brother.”

  I nodded. “There’s no proof, though.”

  “Maybe we just haven’t found it yet. If Walters takes a closer look at Tommy, who knows what he’ll turn up? Leave it to him, now.”

  “By all means.”

  He gave my hand another squeeze, then let go and stood, looking at Nat. “Will you excuse me? I’d better give Walters a call.”

  “Of course.”

  We stayed at the table while Tony went outside to make his call. After
a moment I realized Nat was watching me, and looked up at her.

  “I think his manners are improving.” She smiled, the skin around her eyes crinkling with amusement. “More coffee?”

  I shook my head. “I’m floating.”

  “It’s time to start dinner anyway.”

  I got up to help, and Nat assigned me the duty of making red chile sauce for enchiladas. Simple and soothing task, starting with a roux of oil and flour, then adding seasonings and the puréed chile that Nat preferred to using powdered. Its color was vibrant red, and it would be brilliant on the plate.

  “I’m sorry about the damage to your door,” I said while she pulled veggies, tortillas, and cheese out of the refrigerator. “And for leading Swazo to your h—hic—house. I feel like I’ve placed you in danger.”

  “I doubt he’ll come back. He made his point.”

  “So to speak.”

  Nat chuckled, which made me feel better. She sliced some onions and started them sautéeing, which filled the kitchen with a delicious aroma. Suddenly I was hungry.

  Male voices sounded outside the door, then it opened and Manny came in, followed by Tony. Nat greeted her intended with a smooch on the cheek. Manny hugged her, then turned to me.

  “Chica, you should spend the night here with your aunt. You shouldn’t be alone.”

  “I gather Tony filled you in on our visitor.”

  Manny’s bushy brows gathered into a frown. “He better not come back, that’s all. I’ll be in the garage,” he added, kissing Nat’s cheek before he left.

  I looked at Tony, who had stayed near the door. “Did you reach Walters?”

  “Yeah. He’s on his way over. He’ll want to hear it from you. The report didn’t come up, but I told him about the bread Swazo wouldn’t sell you.”

  “OK.”

  “Tony, would you like to stay for dinner?” Nat asked.

  “It’s Sunday,” I said.

  “Oh, crap,” Tony said, then looked up guiltily at Nat. “Sorry. Um, I need to make a call.”

  I glanced at Nat’s kitchen clock as Tony went back outside. It was quarter to six; he might already be too late.

  “What does Sunday matter?” Nat asked.

  “He usually eats dinner with his family on Sundays. If he isn’t working.”