Cinco de Mayhem (10 page)

W
hen I divorced Manny, I instituted a dating moratorium for perfectly reasonable reasons. One was to fend off the pressures like the un-asked-for advice that everyone from grandmas to supermarket checkers feels free to give: “Get on Match.com or Hookup or Tinder,” or other such cringe-inducing online dating site. “Everybody's doing it!” This command is usually followed by anecdotes like, “That's how so-and-so's cousin met her fifth husband and look at them!”

I could be happy for so-and-so's cousin. I just couldn't imagine myself posting my photo and chatting and emoticon winking or electronic poking or flirting. And then actually going out to meet strangers? No way.

Another reason I fended off dating was one I wouldn't admit to anyone but Cass. Emotions. Namely, I was sick of them. I wanted none of
the ups and downs I'd had with Manny. The arguments and accusations, the blind love and make-up bliss followed by the nagging worries and sorrows. I also feared reverting to my teenage anxieties, although those needed an update as much as my dating wardrobe. In high school, Mom had screened my sister's and my landline calls. The thought of hovering by my cell phone or waiting at my computer keyboard seemed somehow worse. Plus, I had no call screener, although Flori had volunteered. Imagining Flori's over-the-top flirting as my call screener made me smile. I summoned my adult sensibilities and assured Cass that I wasn't upset in the least.

“
Brigitte
was the one doing all the flirting!” she clarified, hammer raised. “Jake was merely seated beside her. We had assigned seats.” She waved the hammer. “Anyway, I thought you should know. But you have no need to worry. He'll be smitten more than ever after you feed him that green chile cheese soufflé. This Friday, right?”

I knew Cass was trying to make me feel better. Little did she know of my soufflé flops and dessert dithers and relationship anxieties. “Yeah, Friday,” I said, mentally confirming that this was really Wednesday afternoon. I wished I had another week . . . or more. “Jake can dance with whomever he wants,” I said, hoping I sounded more resolute than I felt.

Cass, a single mom who vows to remain unencumbered by marriage and any relationship prompting a registry or paperwork, would have said the very same thing. Hearing me say it, she narrowed her eyes to imply,
Who are you and what have you done with my friend Rita?

“Really!” I said, now sounding on the edge of psychotically perky.

“Okay,” Cass said, still eyeing me skeptically. “That's a good, healthy attitude.”

H
ealthy, I reminded myself, after letting Cass get back to her work of firing up metal. I was walking—a healthy activity—toward my original destination, OhLaLa Bistro, where I hoped to find Brigitte. Well, “hoped” was the wrong word. I still dreaded meeting her, although at least now I didn't have to accuse her of murder. I chided myself once again. I'd meant what I said to Cass. Brigitte was free to flirt. Jake was free to dance. We hadn't expressed love or promises. We were friends. Except when my friends gave me a peck on the cheek, I didn't tingle down to my toes.

I walked another block, swinging the overloaded tote and forcing myself to focus on positives. The weather was certainly one. It was another gorgeous spring afternoon with a sky the color of turquoise. As I turned the corner, I spotted Brigitte stepping into OhLaLa. I'd correctly guessed that the statuesque blonde wouldn't face grief like me, lodging myself on the sofa and sniffling through reruns of
Law and Order
or rereading
Wuthering Heights
. No, she'd grab ahold of work and routine. At this time of day that meant OhLaLa, which, unlike Napoleon's fancy flagship, opened for lunch.

The French bistro occupied an adobe house
with square-edged walls, a deep covered porch, and a line of brick trim along the roofline. A rustic picket fence, painted a muted gray-blue, enclosed a brick patio set with metal café tables. In the herb garden lining the fence, daffodils and tulips turned their faces to the sun and the soil smelled cool and damp.

Diners already occupied a few of the tables. I let myself in the front gate and couldn't resist glancing at their plates. My stomach rumbled at the sight of a
croque-madame,
a French wonder of ham and cheese. Open-faced, the sandwich was draped in creamy béchamel sauce, broiled to bubbling deliciousness, and topped with a fried egg. I slowed to gawk at the dish.

“They're open,” the lucky lady with the
croque-madame
told me, mistaking my gaze as one of surprise that the bistro had opened its doors. “They're carrying on to honor Napoleon.” She raised a fork toward the heavens.

I murmured some thanks and made my way to the front porch. Brigitte had her back to me. Her sleek short hair fell perfectly into place and she wore trendy tight-hipped black slacks, a black shimmery top, and wedge capri sandals that would have me tripping into the tulips. The server who hurried by also wore black, so I couldn't necessarily attribute either of their looks to mourning. Brigitte certainly wasn't weeping at the moment. She was chewing out a red-faced waitress.

“No, no, no!
Croque-monsieur
with a
q,
DeeDee. “
Mon dieu!
Now of all the times, I cannot tolerate your spelling mistakes. Fix this at once before anyone sees it!”

Before I could catch her attention, she disappeared into the building.

“Sorry. So sorry!” the hapless DeeDee cried after her. When she saw me, she blocked the blackboard with her body. She was in her twenties, I guessed, and prettily curvy in a way Addie would kill for.

I smiled at her. “Tough day,” I said, hoping to glean some information before me and my emotions faced Brigitte. “I'm sorry about your boss.”

DeeDee ran a hand through her curly hazel hair, revealing a tattoo of a whisk pricked into her soft underarm. “I can't believe he's gone. He was so big for such a small guy.”

A big bully
,
which is probably what got him killed
.

DeeDee, thankfully, couldn't read my thoughts.

“Ms. Voll says we have to stay strong in Mr. Napoleon's memory,” she said. “He'd want it that way. He'd want everything perfect. He always wanted things perfect . . .” She glanced down at the sign, spelling desperation evident.

“I work at a café too,” I told her. “The pace can be frantic sometimes. Hard to be perfect.”

She shot me a then-you-understand look. “The last time he spoke to me, it was the day before yesterday and he was mad that I was three minutes late. He demanded punctuality. Then today, I already dropped a plate and spilled a water pitcher and I can't spell the stupid sandwich right. Mr. Napoleon would yell that I'm stupid. I can't disappoint Ms. Voll. She's working really hard to keep the place going.” She sniffled.

“Here,” I said, feeling for her. “Let me see that blackboard. I think I can help.” I'm no spelling-bee champ, that's for sure. In fact, since comput
erized spell-check entered my life, I've lost much of my spelling ability. Still, I knew a glaring food error when I saw one.
Croak Monsieur Napoleon,
the chalkboard read in lovely cursive script. A shiver ran through me. Monsieur had indeed croaked.

I set down my tote and fixed the spelling. DeeDee thumped her forehead with her palm. “Stupid,” she muttered. “That's where the Q goes.”

I knew I didn't have much time with DeeDee before a customer or Brigitte demanded her attention. “How did the staff get along with Napoleon?” I asked.

She stopped abusing her forehead. “We all got on fine,” she replied quickly. “It's an honor to work here. He is—was—a great chef. We're honored.”

She sounded brainwashed. Or scared. I tried to assure her that she could tell me if anyone had a grudge. “Someone killed your boss,” I said. “Murdered him. If you can think of anyone here . . .” I let the idea hang, hoping she'd catch on.

She did, almost too much. Her eyes widened with fear and I was afraid she was about to bolt. “Oh my gosh! No! You think someone here . . . ?”

I nodded, and her eyes darted toward the kitchen, where several sous-chefs labored. “He fired a bunch of people,” she said. “Henri and Vickie. Val . . . Oscar . . . that guy who did the dishes whose name I never got. Mr. Napoleon threatened Estevan and Lila the other day for kissing by the Dumpster, but they had to know they had that coming.” She ticked off several more names, a lot of people fired, threatened with firing, yelled at, or otherwise abused. Midway through the list I reached for the notebook in my tote.

“Can you think of anyone who was particularly upset?” I asked, pen poised.

DeeDee squished her face into deep thought. “No . . . well . . . Ivan, one of the dishwashers, he was real upset and waved around a knife, but that was months ago and, anyway, he's in jail for violating parole for domestic violence or something.”

Part of me hoped that Ivan had broken out of jail with one of Ida Green's tortilla shanks. I wouldn't feel guilty fingering a suspect with a domestic violence conviction.

As I pondered Ivan, DeeDee clamped her hand to her heart, relief washing over her face. “Oh! All this talk of killers made me forget. I'm an idiot! I
am
stupid! I already know who killed Mr. Napoleon!”

I stopped breathing. My body tensed in case the murderer appeared and I had to whip out the handcuffs or pepper spray.

DeeDee's head bobbed. “Yeah, yeah, everybody knows. The tamale lady. The sweet older lady who runs Tía Tamales. It's a shame. I love her tamales. My mom's real upset. We get all our Christmas tamales from Tía's. The best are her sweet ones with the dates and prunes and the
piloncillo
, you know that dark cane sugar that's shaped like a cone and tastes kinda like molasses? It won't be Christmas without those tamales.”

It wouldn't be Christmas without Linda either. Before I could give DeeDee my Linda-is-innocent speech, she was scooting off to a customer waving from the far side of the patio. “Sorry!” she called to me as she left.

So was I. I could delay no longer. Time to face
Brigitte. I stepped inside and smack into Brigitte. She dodged me with poise.

“Inside or out?” she asked automatically, before recognizing me and grabbing me in another bone-crushing hug. Mid-hug, right about when my back felt about to crack, I resolved to tone up. I'd renew my gym membership and sweat and lift weights. I'd do more than walk to work. I'd jog. I'd take up yoga. Right. The last time I tried yoga, I threw out my neck. Maybe I'd start by buying a mat and getting a yoga book from the library. I'd jog to the library.

Brigitte released me. “So good of you to come by, Rita!”

“I wanted to check on you,” I said. Yeah, check on her alibi and her flirting, I thought before reining in my teenage emotions.

She grabbed my hand. “I am the one who should be checking on you. What a shock you had too. I can't thank you enough for trying to help Napoleon. Such a shock for everyone . . . to think he's gone. You must think me awful to keep the restaurant open.”

I didn't, I assured her. “Staying busy is good in times of grief, that's what my mother always says.” Mom also claims that adobe walls abet burglars and that I'll eventually be lured home by an intense longing for her tuna-noodle hot dish. In other words, Mom does not always base her opinions in reality. However, Mom was probably right about staying busy to combat grief.

“My mother says the same,” Brigitte said. “Most of all, I am here because it is what Napoleon would want.” She waved for stressed DeeDee to
take over the hostess station. “That girl,” she complained as we walked through the dining room. “I will have to make some changes around here.”

Poor DeeDee. Had she dodged Napoleon's firings only to be guillotined by Brigitte? Brigitte stopped to shift a table a microscopic distance, and I took in the bistro. The plaster walls and viga ceiling beams were pure New Mexico. The décor was subtly French, with marble-topped tables and wicker chairs sporting cushions in Provençal patterns. Edith Piaf again quavered on the sound system, softy crooning a mournful tune. A bartender in a white shirt and black vest polished wineglasses behind an ornate, dark-wood bar stocked with exotic liquors. Before his cowpoke hot dog attire, Don Busco had stood right there. I recalled a moment from a happy hour about a year ago. Don had chatted with me and Cass about dream jobs. We pretty much had ours, we'd said. We were lucky. He'd gestured to the bar and said, “I definitely have mine.” Not soon after, he'd been fired and publicly maligned by Napoleon. Did he resent his former boss enough to kill? Had his anger been seething and simmering for months?

Brigitte suggested that we have coffee in her office. We passed through the kitchen, where she made us two mugs from an espresso machine the size of a small refrigerator. “Back here,” she said, leading the way through swinging double doors. Walking through a dark hallway, we passed a small room filled with the usual restaurant backroom paraphernalia of excess linens and utensils. Brigitte announced that the next office was hers.
While she unlocked her door, I peeked in the half-open doorway of the room across the hall, expecting more supplies. What I saw brought me to a gawking halt.