“Oh.” Nat began slicing zucchini. “Well, he seems to be working today.”
It was nice of Nat to invite him to join us. Other than our evening at the Opera, she hadn’t seen him socially at all. She’d made the invitation for my sake, which was kind of her. My cheeks grew warm at the thought that she was welcoming him into the family.
The sauce had thickened nicely. Turning the heat down to low, I set the spoon on the sunflower spoon rest. “What else can I help with?”
Nat put the zucchini into the pan with the onions, then reached for a yellow squash. “Start the oil heating for the tortillas, then you can set the table if you like.”
I pulled out one of Nat’s prized cast-iron skillets, poured some oil into it, and turned on the burner. Nat preferred gas stoves to electric, and so did I. Leaving the blue flames caressing the bottom of the skillet, I cleared the coffee mugs off the table and set them on the counter.
Tony came back in, looking a bit lost-puppyish. His hands were shoved in his pockets, shoulders hunched forward.
“Did you reach your mother?” I asked. “Are you going?”
“Nah, I have to wait for Walters. She’s annoyed. I missed dinner last week, too.”
“Because of your case. I keep forgetting that th—hic—this one isn’t. I’m—”
“Don’t be sorry.”
His abruptness silenced me. I turned to the stove and tested the oil with a drop of water. It sizzled.
“This is hot,” I said to Nat.
“Good.” She handed me a package of blue corn tortillas. “You can start cooking these.”
I opened drawers until I found a pair of tongs, then started frying the tortillas, a few seconds each side, and stacking them on a plate. I heard Nat open the sideboard.
“Well,” she said, “since you’re stuck here, you’d better have dinner with us. Help me with this, will you?”
I glanced over my shoulder and saw her and Tony settling a tablecloth on the kitchen table. I turned back to my work, glad he was staying, annoyed that an awkward moment had intruded. Maybe it was me; maybe I was too sensitive. I sighed, giving up on trying to figure it out.
The kitchen was getting warm. Nat had turned on the oven, and now we both started assembling plates of enchiladas, layering the chile sauce, grated cheddar, and onions. A final sprinkling of cheese on top, and they went into the oven. Nat gave the calabacitas a stir and added a scattering of corn, then started chopping lettuce and tomatoes for garnish.
“May I help?” I asked.
“No, just relax. You’ve had a stressful day.”
Deprived of busy work, I joined Tony at the table. “Thanks for dealing with this. Good thing you came over.”
He nodded. “Guess we’re not doing a movie, though. Probably be too late by the time we’re done with Walters.”
“You haven’t mentioned your ca—hic—case,” I said. “Did you finish it?”
“All but the clean-up and a boatload of paperwork.”
“You found the killer?”
“Killers. Yeah, we spent yesterday rounding them up. That’s why I couldn’t make it to tea.” He gave me an anxious look. “I hope my grandmother didn’t try to steamroller you.”
“Not exactly. She asked a couple of ... uncomfortable questions. She liked the food, though.”
Tony grinned. “Especially the cakes, I bet.”
“I think the strawberry puffs were her favorite.”
“She does like sweet stuff. Thanks for entertaining them.”
“Well, we missed you, of course, but I was glad to meet them. Especially Ange—hic—la—she’s lovely.”
He nodded. “She’s a good kid.”
“Not so much a kid. She seemed very serious when she talked about a career in nursing.”
Tony frowned slightly. “I wish she’d go on and get a bachelor’s. She wants an associate’s degree because she can get a job faster.”
I bit my lip, choosing my words carefully. “College is expensive.”
“I told her I’d help. She doesn’t want to borrow, though, even from me.”
“Well, that’s cautious, but it may also be wise.”
Manny came in from the garage, wiping dust from his hands. “You still here?” he said, pretending to frown at Tony.
“I got invited to stay for dinner.”
“There goes the poker game.” Manny came to the table and gave Tony a good-natured buffet on the shoulder. “Coming to the wedding?”
“I haven’t had a chance to ask him yet,” I said hastily. “We’ve both been busy.”
Tony looked at me “Wedding?”
“Nat and Manny’s wedding. It’s next—hic—month.”
Nat opened the oven and a wave of heat came out, laced with the smell of red chile. I stood up to help her carry food to the table.
“We’ll talk,” I told Tony, and hurried to collect a basket of warm tortillas. My cheeks were warm, too.
“We need cervesa,” Manny said, heading to the fridge. He took out a bottle of beer and waved it at me. “You want one, chica?”
“Yes, please.”
“How about you, Tony? Or there’s sangria, too.”
“Beer’s great. Thanks.”
Nat poured a glass of sangria for herself and joined us at the table. Tony raised his bottle. “Here’s to the bride and groom.”
I clinked my bottle against his, and saw Manny and Nat’s eyes meet across the table as they drank their own private toast. Tony took a bite of enchiladas, then closed his eyes as he chewed, his expression blissful.
“Oh, man,” he said. “This is fantastic. I’ve been eating junk food all week.”
“Glad you like it,” said Nat, looking pleased.
“Do you cook when you have time?” Manny asked Tony.
“I can grill a burger or boil pasta, but that’s about it, other than frozen dinners.”
I shook my head slightly, biting back a comment about how unhealthy processed food was. Not everyone liked to cook. I was certainly guilty of taking short cuts myself, now and then.
Time to change the subject. I didn’t want to ask Tony about work, because, stress. Likewise the visit from Tommy Swazo. Didn’t want to talk about the wedding, either, because the topic was loaded.
“Gina is designing some ads for the tearoom for December,” I said, grasping at conversational straws. “I can’t believe how—hic—early that stuff has to be done.”
“Time flies,” Nat said. “It’s almost October.”
No one had a comment about my advertising plans. Oh, well.
Nat turned to Tony. “I met your sister yesterday. She’s charming.”
“Oh, thanks. Yeah, she’s a peach.”
A heavy rapping at the door made me jump. Tony got up, setting his napkin beside his plate.
“That’s Walters. ‘Scuse me.”
I followed him to the door, knowing Walters would want to talk to me, wanting to get it over with. Tony looked out the window, then opened the door.
Walters stood there, cowboy hat crammed low on his forehead, hands stuffed in the pockets of his sheepskin coat. “Sorry to interrupt your dinner,” he said, giving Tony a wry look.
“Come in, Detective,” said Nat, joining us at the door. “Would you like something to eat?”
“No, thanks. Wife’s got dinner waiting at home. I just need to get the facts—the new facts—from Miss Rosings here.”
“Why don’t you come into the living room?” I said.
“I’ll get the knife,” Tony said, stepping past Walters to go outside.
I led the detective through to the living room and invited him to sit. He took his tablet out and sank into Manny’s favorite chair. Manny hovered at the pass-through to the kitchen, watching. I found that comforting.
I was halfway through describing Tommy Swazo’s visit when Tony joined us. He sat beside me on the couch and put the plastic bag holding the knife on the coffee table in front of Walters, who paused to peer at it.
“Looks like the same work as the other one.”
“I’m fairly certain it is,” I said. “Daniel Swazo made in—hic—inlaid knives.”
“And you found this where?”
“Tommy Swazo stuck it in the door as he was leaving,” I said. “The door you came through.”
Walters looked at Tony, who nodded. “That’s where I found it. I bagged it.”
Walters frowned, then looked at me. “Better stay away from Mr. Swazo.”
“I have every intention of it.”
Tony’s gaze met mine. Was he going to mention the lab report? Maybe I should make an excuse to leave them together...
Walters turned to me, tilting his head. “But you went back to the flea market this morning.”
“Yes. And I noticed something ... it may mean nothing...”
I looked at Tony for guidance. He gave a small nod.
“At the market, Tommy Swazo sells horno bread that his mother bakes. She was there this morning, but not last week. And I noticed—hic—I noticed one shape of bread last week that wasn’t there this week. It had a knotwork decoration on top. Tommy had them under the table last week, and I saw him sell one to a young man, but when I asked the price he said it was a special order.”
“Special order?” Walters frowned. “For bread?”
“Yes. And this morning, another young man with tattoos up his neck came up to Tommy’s table, and I heard Tommy say, ‘Not today’.”
Walters stared at me, silent. My heart thumped.
“So I think there must have been something different ab—hic—about that bread,” I concluded. “The one with the knotwork.”
It sounded lame to me. Walters’s frown deepened. He was still looking at me, but I had the feeling he was seeing something else.
I glanced at Tony. He smiled for just an instant, then his face went back to cop neutral.
Walters looked down at his tablet and poked at the screen a few times, then grunted. “Gotta go. Thanks for the information, Miss Rosings. I’ll be in touch.”
I stood as he did, surprised. That was it? No questions, no warnings?
Tony followed him out, and remained outside for a few minutes. I returned to the kitchen table and my half-eaten enchiladas. I’d lost my appetite.
“Ellen, I meant it about your staying here tonight,” said Manny. “I don’t think you should go home.”
“The guest room’s ready,” offered Nat.
“Thanks, but I’d rather sleep in my own bed.” Or not sleep, as the case may be. “I don’t think Swazo’s going to bother me there,” I added.
“You didn’t think he’d follow you here,” said Manny.
I took a swig of my beer, then picked up my fork and pushed some calabacitas around my plate. Manny was probably right; there was safety in numbers, at least, though Swazo had come up here pretty boldly. Remembering him standing outside the window, I didn’t feel all that safe.
Plus, I was stubborn. As badly as I’d been sleeping at home, I’d probably sleep still worse away from my own bed. And I was damned if I’d be frightened out of my home by a bully, which I was coming to believe Tommy Swazo to be.
Tony came back in, sat down, and started eating again. His appetite had not been adversely affected by his colleague’s visit.
“Tony, tell Ellen she’d be safer spending the night here,” Manny said.
Tony looked at him thoughtfully while he chewed a mouthful and swallowed. “I’m not sure that’s true.”
“Thank you,” I said, giving Manny a repressive look.
“Walters is going to ask for a warrant for Swazo’s arrest,” Tony added.
I looked at him. “So he made the connection between the bread and the knife.”
Tony nodded. “I didn’t even have to nudge. Walters is pretty sharp.”
“Do you think he’ll get a wa—hic—warrant based on my suspicions?”
“There’s more than suspicion when Swazo stuck a knife in your door. Plus there’s the stuff on Daniel’s knife, and his death. It’s worth a shot. Depends on what the judge thinks.”
I sipped the last of my beer while I watched Tony eat. Nat and Manny had already cleared their plates, and were loading the dishwasher.
Tony wiped the last of the sauce from his plate with a flour tortilla. “You not hungry?”
“Not any more. You want it?”
I nudged my plate toward him and he put it on top of his, then proceeded to clean it. I couldn’t help smiling.
“When’s the last time you ate a salad?”
“No idea. Want to make me one?”
A frisson shimmied down my spine. Was he asking to come over to my place? I could certainly respond with an invitation...
“Here,” Nat said, bringing over the cutting board and scraping the last of the garnish onto the plate. “That’ll tide you over.”
Tony tilted his head to look up at her sideways. I had to laugh.
“I’d be happy to make you a salad,” I said, “but I bet you cou—hic—couldn’t do justice to it right now. How about tomorrow night?”
There. I’d done it.
“Sure.”
Wow. I’d have to clean up my suite. Or should I feed him in the dining parlor? No, too many uncomfortable memories for us associated with that room.
Tony finished the last bite of my enchiladas, dropped his fork, and held up his hands like a calf-roper who’d done his work. Nat collected the plates, grinning.
“That was awesome,” Tony said. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” said Nat. She turned to me. “And you are welcome to spend the night. You know that.”
“I know. Thanks, but I think I’ll rest better at home.”
The clock on the microwave showed a few minutes to seven. Outside the window, night was drifting into puddles under the piñon trees.
“And I should probably go there,” I added, getting up. “I’m pretty wiped.”
“I’ll follow you,” Tony said. “And I did request a patrol for you, too.”
“Thanks.” I smiled at him, then turned to Nat. “Thank you for a great dinner.”
Hugs exchanged with Nat and Manny, I gathered my belongings and headed for the door. I paused to peer out the window. It was pretty dark outside. Manny came to turn on the outdoor light.
“You be careful,” he said.
“I w—hic—will.”
I was glad to have Tony following me home. Maybe I’d invite him in for a nightcap? Except he probably wouldn’t want to drink any more before driving. Or maybe I was thinking too hard.
I pulled into my driveway a little ahead of him and parked. As I opened the door I heard the motorcycle’s engine shut off, a gesture of courtesy to my neighbors. Tony had done that before, coasting up the driveway, though it really wasn’t necessary. I smiled.
The house was dark; I’d forgotten to leave a light on. I got out of the car, shouldered my purse, and stepped onto the portal.
A shadow moved between me and the door. I froze. The shadow lunged toward me, faster than I’d have thought possible, and in the dim light something glinted like a knife.
12
A “pop, pop” startled me as I jumped backward. The shadow stumbled, dropped to one knee, said something I didn’t understand in a low, masculine voice, then slumped forward.
“Ellen!” Tony shouted behind me. “Get back!”
I backed up and nearly bumped into Tony as he got off his bike. He ignored me, brushing past me, moving forward, his attention on the man on the ground.
What just happened?
Tony’s hands were out in front of him and though I couldn’t see it, from his stance I realized he was holding a gun. My heart, which was already racing, pounded even faster.
The man on the ground groaned. I began to fear I knew who it was.
“Turn on the porch light,” Tony called.
I hurried to the portal that ran alongside the kitchen, staying well away from my would-be attacker. At the back do
or I opened my purse to get out my keys.
That’s when I noticed my hands were shaking. My breath rasped as I fumbled to find the keys, to get the right one into the lock. I heard Tony talking in a low voice, saying police codes.
I finally got the door open and reached in to turn on the lights. I hit the whole bank of switches, lighting up both the outdoors and the hallway.
Sprawled beside my car lay Tommy Swazo, on his side, not moving.
“Crap,” said Tony.
An open knife lay by Swazo’s open hand, the hilt done in red and black. I caught my breath, took a step toward him.
What just happened?
“Stay back!” Tony stared at the man on the ground with intense concentration, one hand still holding the gun on him, the other holding a cell phone. “Is that Swazo?”
“Yes,” I said. I was shaking. “H-he doesn’t look like he’s breathing. Should I do something?”
“Go inside. Help’s on the way.”
I couldn’t leave Tony alone with that man. I feared—irrationally, no doubt—that Swazo would rise up, like the villain in some movie who should have been dead but wasn’t, after all.
Not that I’d be able to do anything about it if he did.
But he would not be getting up. Swazo’s eyes stared, unmoving. Blood spread in a gradually widening pool beneath him, glinting on the edges of the gravel. And I began to understand what had happened.
Tony had saved me from being stabbed. Swazo had meant to kill me.
A siren sounded in the distance. We held still, waiting, listening to it increase in volume until the sound became painful, then abruptly shut off. Headlights swung into my driveway and crunched to a stop. Red and blue lights flashed, hurting my eyes, making me dizzy.
“Police,” said a voice over a loudspeaker.
“Aragón,” Tony shouted back. “I called it in.”
“OK, stay there.”
A car door opened and closed. More sirens were approaching. A uniformed officer walked up to Tony.
“Get up,” the officer said to Swazo, who didn’t respond.
The officer looked up at me. He was young—probably younger than me.
“She’s the homeowner,” Tony said.
The officer moved around behind Swazo and nudged his leg with a foot. No response. Kneeling, one hand on his holstered gun, the officer reached his other hand to Swazo’s neck, then murmured something I didn’t catch.
A Bodkin for the Bride Page 17
