Cinco de Mayhem (18 page)

B
unny had a search warrant allowing her to look for more than mushrooms. She wanted access to our personal lockers, where we kept changes of clothes and, in Addie's case, extra wigs. Manny, meanwhile, was acting needy in the walk-in fridge and freezer. The man did not know his food.

“What's this?” he asked, petulantly, with each package he pulled.

Juan excelled at stoic, one-word answers. Leaving him to deal with Manny, I was about to step out to the patio when my phone buzzed. I wrenched it from my pocket a ring before its cutoff for voice mail.

Jake's name flashed up on the caller ID. “Rita,” he said abruptly. “Have you seen Manny?”

I'd seen more than enough of Manny. “He and Bunny are here at Tres Amigas searching for poison mushrooms.” I inhaled deeply and exhaled bad news. “They have a knife, Jake. Linda's knife. Bunny said it's the murder weapon.”

“Yep,” Jake replied. “I heard. Manny called me. Said I have an hour to find Linda and bring her to the police station or else they'll put out an APB on her. I'd rather save her the embarrassment. Thing is, I can't find her. I've been by her house. I've called her and Flori's cell and the café number. No one's answering, and the café phone says you're closed?”

“I'll ask Flori and call you right back,” I said. Poor Linda. It's what we'd all expected, but the reality still shocked me.

“Wait, Rita,” Jake said. “I forgot to say good morning.”

“Oh, that's okay—”

“And how much I'm looking forward to tonight.” He hung up.

“Your cheeks are as red as a chile,” Flori said with a chuckle. “Was that about your date tonight? Did you make magic chocoflan? You know it's best to let it sit a few hours or overnight for the flan to set and the cake to get all nice and moist from the caramel.”

I had made flan last night, without any chocolate cake attached. Scouring my cookbooks and online recipe sites had been a fun distraction. Thinking of my French-Mexican theme, I'd hedged between a recipe for Parisian flan and the caramel-draped Mexican classic. The Parisian variety is firmer, set in a buttery shortcrust and baked to golden brown on top. A great advantage is that no flipping is involved and thus less chance for mishaps. The classic local flan resembles a Midwest egg custard, although better because it bakes in a caramel sauce. If all goes right, the caramel forms a pretty topping, and I had fresh strawberries and whipped cream on hand to cover any flipping flaws.

“That's not why Jake called,” I said, breaking into her talk of the romantic potential of chocoflan. “He said that the police plan to arrest Linda.” My throat tightened. “He needs to find her and get her to the police station. Do you know where she is?”

Juan, sitting at the counter nearby, uttered some holy names.

Flori took the news with the calmness of a tai-chi master. “I expected that,” she said. “Tell Jake to try the Cathedral. At this hour, if Linda's not home and not here, that's where she'll be.”

“It'll be okay,” I said, reaching for my phone. “She's innocent and Jake will help her.”

“We will too,” Flori said, but her voice cracked.

I caught Juan's eye and guessed his thoughts.
What if we couldn't help her?

I
arrived panting at the Cathedral, having jogged-walked the several blocks from Tres Amigas. Jake waited by the massive front doors. He hefted one open and we entered to the front gift shop where the Cathedral sold books and art.

“Did Flori say where Linda might be?” he asked. He held his hat respectfully in his hand. His boots made a clogging sound against the wood floor.

“No, she suggested we try the main area or Conquistadora's chapel first.”

In the grand, main space a few tourists snapped photos of the high arches, soaring heavenward and painted in intricate patterns of red, green, and gold over creamy white. Sun beaming through the stained-glass windows cast rainbows across the floor and pews, and the air smelled of candle wax and lilies.

I nodded toward a figure hunched in prayer. Jake and I approached, but as we got closer, I
knew it wasn't Linda. Linda also wasn't praying to Our Lady of Peace, a seventeenth-century wooden statue of the Virgin Mary, also known as La Conquistadora.

“Back rooms?” I asked, but neither of us knew how to access them.

“I'll look for someone official to ask,” Jake said. “Maybe you can peek in that silent prayer room.”

I lingered, gazing up at La Conquistadora's placid face and her resplendent blue velvet robe. Jake's footsteps sounded up the aisle and then a familiar voice wrecked the tranquility. Manny greeted Jake in a fake chummy tone.

“Ah, Rita,” my ex said when I returned to the main chapel. “When you ran off from Tres Amigas, I figured you were going somewhere important. I should thank you. You got me out of my freezer duties.” He laughed as if I would find this amusing too.

A young policeman in uniform pushed through the double doors. His eyes rose to the ceiling and even I, a terrible lip-reader, understood his silent mouthing of
Wow
as he took in the beauty.

Manny snorted. “Newcomer. We're here to work, deputy, not sightsee. Our suspect is an older woman. Gray hair—”

“More like deep black hair with lovely silver highlights and cute bangs,” I corrected. “And sixties are not old.”

“About five-foot-five and possibly armed,” Manny continued. “Wanted for murder.”

The deputy's eyes widened. Gripping the butt of his gun, he headed down the aisle, peeking under pews as he went.

“Oh come on,” I said in exasperation. “You know that Linda's not dangerous, Manny.”

My ex shrugged. “She owns a gun, Rita. Not to mention knives. I know it's hard to accept, but face facts. Her fingerprints are all over the murder weapon.” He instructed the deputy to head left while he took the right side of the building.

“Of course her fingerprints are on the knife,” I said, knowing I'd have better luck conversing with one of the deceased archbishops entombed nearby. “It's her knife!”

“Sure is. Her own mother acknowledged that,” Manny said, aiming this jibe at Jake.

My dinner date leaned against a pew, boots crossed, thumbs looped in the pockets of his dark jeans. “I'm sure my client will readily identify her knife,” he said coolly. “And will remind the police that said knife was left in an unsecured, public location overnight for the actual murderer to steal.”

“Whatever,” Manny said, adopting a favorite line from our teenage daughter. “Let's find your client, shall we?” He headed for the altar and massive pipe organ. Jake chose the confessionals, tapping lightly on each door before peeking inside.

I used to love hide-and-seek. Not this version. Where should I look? The gift shop? Behind a stand of flickering votive candles in red glass containers? The bishop's lounge? As it turned out, I didn't have to go anywhere. I was lingering by the baptismal font, admiring the peaceful pool and wondering if the church had any secret passages or hidden restrooms, when Linda came up beside me.

“Rita? What are you doing here?”

“Linda!” I exclaimed, loud enough to send the
patrolman spinning. Manny, who had been tapping a drum set by the choir box, tensed into his supercop stance, feet apart and knees flexed. The look suggested he was ready to shoot to kill, or return a tennis serve.

“Hands in the air!” Manny commanded, his hand resting on his service holster.

Without thinking, I stepped in front of a gasping Linda. “Manny Martin, stop that right now!” I said in the voice I once used on misbehaving kids at Celia's elementary school summer camp.

Linda put a steady hand on my shoulder. “I'm sorry,” she said. “You were all looking for me?”

If there's such a thing as having a too-nice syndrome, Linda has it, and there's no curing her. She continued to apologize for causing everyone trouble.

“Linda, please don't apologize. He shouldn't talk to you like that,” I said, adding, “Especially not in church.” My jibe lobbed over Manny's head. He did, however, break from his melodramatic stance. He and Jake converged in front of us as Linda apologized profusely.

“Oh, I should apologize to you all. I hope you weren't looking for me too long. I was in the back, mending a dress. I'm on the committee to help preserve La Conquistadora's wardrobe. We have to get ready. We're exhibiting her outfits and jewelry for her Procession this summer.”

“Neat,” the young deputy said, earning a frown from Manny.

It was neat. I'd seen La Conquistadora parade across town last summer, along with a thousand or so of her fans, many dressed in seventeenth-
century costumes. The event had given me goose bumps, and I would have loved to view her sacred closet. Devotees present her with fine, hand-sewn outfits that the Cathedral carefully preserves and only rarely displays. I couldn't beg Linda for a peek now, though.

“Linda,” I said. “You know why we're here? Why the police wanted to find you?”

She patted me comfortingly on the arm. “Of course. They think I killed Napoleon. I am so very sorry for fighting with him. I've already gone to confession and apologized.”

No!
I wanted to yell at her.
Stop apologizing and saying “
confess”!
I raised my eyebrows in a frantic “do something” gesture to Jake.

He already was. Taking Linda by the elbow, he said to Manny, “Ms. Santiago will ride to the station with me. If I'm not mistaken, Detective, I still have time in our ‘gentleman's' agreement to escort my client to your office.”

I appreciated the edge Jake landed on “gentleman” and his polite gestures. He held the door. I stepped through to find Bunny in the lobby book-shop, along with two priests, a gaggle of gift shop ladies, and several neck-craning tourists.

“We got our suspect,” Manny's voice boomed behind us. A few of the tourists held camera phones high to take pictures. The gift shop ladies gasped, their fingers dancing on rosary beads.

“Head high, Linda,” Jake said softly.

Outside, I blinked at the brightness. Jake offered me his other arm, but I declined, telling him to help Linda. I probably should have accepted. Linda was fine and fit, whereas I not only had
watery eyes but also achy legs, thanks to yesterday's overambitious jog. I could see enough to spot an irritation, though.

Slips of paper fluttered under the wiper of Jake's car. “Really, Manny?” I said to my ex, who was bounding happily down the front steps. “
Two
parking tickets?”

Manny feigned innocence. “What can I do, Rita? This car's illegally parked. In front of a church.” He grinned at Bunny, who didn't reciprocate. Catching my eye, she shrugged slightly. I could guess who'd written the citations.

Jake collected the tickets without complaint and helped Linda into his car. She scrunched down low in the front seat. While Jake was being the chivalrous chauffeur, I noticed another assault on his otherwise spotless car: a tow-notice sticker, bright pink, slapped on the driver's side window. This time I didn't bother with verbal sarcasm. I rolled my eyes and head theatrically. I needn't have bothered. My ex didn't see my performance. His eyes were on his favorite subject. Pretty women.

Brigitte and Crystal, minus their crepe and juice carts, rushed up San Francisco Street. Crystal's skirt, as bright red as her hibiscus tea and taut as mango skin, edged up her thighs as she trotted to keep up with Brigitte. Brigitte, taking long strides, wore her usual outfit of all black, except for an apron splattered in crepe batter.

Manny stepped forward to meet them. I followed, worried that their flushed faces meant more bad news.

“Hello there,” Manny said, voice as smooth and
sticky sweet as molasses. “Is there some trouble, ladies?”

“Yes, trouble,” Brigitte replied as Crystal caught her breath. “We hear you are making an arrest of an innocent woman and we protest.”

“Free Linda!” Crystal gasped.

Manny's glee morphed into distaste. He'd likely expected adoration for the hero cop making an arrest. “Why do you ladies want a murderess to go free?” he asked.

“Because Rita and I are hunting the actual killer,” Brigitte said, and Manny's expression turned downright sour. She looped her arm around mine and tugged me close.

“Because Napoleon could drive a saintly woman to despair and beyond,” Crystal added, dramatically and unhelpfully. “If Linda killed him, she deserves a medal. A medal!” She leaned around me and Brigitte and waved in the direction of Jake's car, where only the top of Linda's head was visible.

Brigitte, still firmly attached to my elbow, turned us as one to wave to Jake. “
Bonjour,
counselor,” she called out, gesturing for him to join us.

Feeling decidedly short and unfashionable next to Brigitte, I wished I could scrunch down and hide like Linda. Jake, standing by his car door, hesitated before pulling his Stetson low over his forehead and coming to join us. “Ladies,” he murmured politely to Crystal and Brigitte, who gave twinkling smiles in return.

“You will want to interview us, Monsieur Strong?” Brigitte asked. “Regarding Napoleon's character and finances?”

Crystal added, “We can tell you a thing or two about that man.”

“I'm the one you should be talking to,” Manny grumbled. “In fact, both of you have already been interviewed. Have you thought of something else to report? Did you withhold evidence?”

“Perhaps we find new evidence,” Brigitte said with a French pout and shrug.

I shifted slightly away, a move that prompted her to grasp me tighter.

“What evidence?” Manny demanded.

“Ambiguities in Napoleon's financial records, specifically the outgoing payments column of miscellaneous accounts and unrecorded withdrawals and receivables. Numbers, they tell everything,” Brigitte said as Manny's eyes glazed over. Attributing a crime to a wronged woman in a rage was much more his style than forensic accounting.

“Passion,” Manny said. “That's what spurred this murder. Extreme emotion. Not someone who got mad about some missing withdrawals.”

“But I am passionate about numbers,” said Brigitte in her French accent that could make talk of numbers sound sexy.

My ex perked up. “I bet you are passionate in many ways,” he said with a lascivious grin.

Try as I might, I couldn't stop a groan from escaping my lips.

Brigitte replied seriously, “I am. It is true.” She turned to Jake. “I am passionate, Mr. Strong, and I wish to help solve the numeric mystery. We shall discuss the financial ambiguities over dinner, say tonight? Or do you prefer dancing?”

I was halfway thankful that Brigitte still had
my arm, otherwise I might have withered away. Would Jake forget our date? Ditch me for a tall, passionate, dancer? I studied the sidewalk, fixing on an ant struggling to carry off a potato chip triple its size.

“Well, that's a mighty kind offer,” Jake replied smoothly as the ant dropped the chip and my heart sank. “But I have dinner plans with a special lady tonight. Rita here is making me a Cinco de Mayo soufflé.”

“Oh,” Brigitte said. She dropped my arm and twisted my shoulders into an embrace. “Rita, you sly girl, I thought we were friends and yet you do not tell me you're fixing a French feast? A soufflé?
Très romantique! Très difficile, non?
Me, I would be in the kitchen already, making preparations.”

I felt all eyes on me and my cheeks burning. I focused on the friends part. “Of course we're friends, Brigitte!” I said. “And I've tested the soufflé recipe a couple of times. It's pretty good, except the one that fell and the one that burned my tongue and . . .” I stopped talking.

Brigitte patted my arm. “So many soufflés to taste. No wonder you are jogging.”

“Yep, more jogging tomorrow,” I said, feeling a sting of French shaming. “First thing tomorrow morning.”

Manny, for once, came to my rescue, albeit unintentionally.

“We'd all love to hear more about your dating and exercise attempts, Rita,” he said, sarcasm oozing. “But Bunny and I have a murder suspect to book. Strong, we'll follow your car.”

Jake tipped his hat to me, Linda, and Crystal before returning to Linda.

“Ah, now there's a man,” Crystal sighed. “I bet he wouldn't use a good woman and toss her away like that beast, Napoleon.”

She stomped off, heading back toward the Plaza, but not before I'd seen tears welling in her eyes.

Brigitte saw them too. She nudged me in the ribs. “Now it is clear.”

Was it?
I asked Brigitte what she meant.

She kept her eyes on Crystal's departing form. “Yes, clear. I said to myself when Napoleon shut down Crystal's juice cart, why does he do this? Juice, it is no competitor to his crepes or restaurants. But, what if Crystal and Napoleon fought for other reasons? What if they had a tryst, a relationship that went poorly?” She turned to me. “I asked the kitchen staff, the gossipers. The stupid girl, DeeDee, she reported seeing Napoleon and Crystal together in his office at OhLaLa. Several times, after hours. Then, one night, yelling and weeping.” She shrugged. “It is not unexpected. Napoleon, he . . . what is the phrase? Destroyed his romantic bridges?”