Cinco de Mayhem (21 page)

T
hat night, Linda and I polished off half of my would-be date-night flan and talked about our children and never mentioned prison or murder or poisonings. We sipped peach-chamomile tea and went to bed before eleven, Linda tucked in with Hugo in Celia's bedroom. I hoped they both slept more peacefully than me. My dreams again swirled into nightmares, this time of Don chasing Linda, Flori, Addie, and me, and, inexplicably, Celia, Cass, and Hugo. All of us were crammed in the Queen Mum, careening down a hill that got steeper and steeper until we were falling through space.

By the time my alarm went off, my head spun and my legs wouldn't lie still. I remembered my vow to jog. A nice little jaunt up to the bird sanctuary would fix me up, I lied to myself. Stepping outside in a windbreaker and spandex, I doubted my decision. A brisk north wind whooshed down
the little valley. Coffee would clear my head with a lot less effort. So would a trip to the French bakery to pick up pastry for my houseguest. Visions of croissants,
pain au chocolat,
and custard buns filled my head until replaced by a picture of svelte, athletic Brigitte. She wouldn't let a breeze and a few gray clouds hold her back. And she probably ate muesli or fruit for breakfast. I tightened my shoelaces, stuffed my phone in the armband I'd borrowed from Celia, and plugged myself into peppy eighties pop music. One heavy foot after the other, I made my way up Upper Canyon Road.

If my Midwest relatives were plopped down in the middle of Upper Canyon, they might mistake it for countryside, rather than a millionaire's row. The road is as narrow as a one-lane path in places, boxed in by protruding adobe walls and massive cottonwoods buckling the berm with their roots. Earthen-toned homes lie behind high adobe walls or, like Victor's, blend in with nature-mimicking gardens of rock and native plants with names like Apache plume, bear grass, soap weed, and soft-leaf yucca. As I jogged, I admired my surroundings and again felt lucky to have snagged such a desirable address. Passing a real estate sign, I reminded myself that I was grateful to Teresa too. My new landlady could be selling her inherited estate for a bundle instead of simply depersonalizing it. A bundle as in well over a million dollars, most likely. I wanted to stay in my little casita, and I wanted Victor's home to stay in his family.

Thoughts of my depersonalizing responsibilities distracted me from my lung-sucking agony. I'd call the art movers to take away some of the
remaining items. Then I'd deal with the excess furniture. If the movers worked fast, I'd still have a few weeks to clean and have Teresa's decorator come in for a look. Easy, if only I didn't have a job, a teenager, and an off-the-books murder investigation to deal with too.

I turned up the music, letting ABBA pump up my legs. Panting and internally singing along to “Dancing Queen,” I never heard the vehicle coming. I never heard a skid of brakes or a horn either. Something made me turn back, a sixth sense like Flori claims to have or a gust of warm air preceding the silver grill barreling toward me.

Fear blinded me. I glimpsed flashes of red, a dark windshield, and a bulging headlight before I turned and leaped to the side, into a scrubby patch of ditch and brush. Expecting to feel my body breaking, I clenched, thinking of Celia. How stupid that I would die doing something for my health.

The vehicle sped by in a whirl of wind, dirt, and pebbles that pelted the back of my neck. I fell hard, my palms hitting the ground first, then my elbows and chest. My scream ended in a hiccup as my lungs compressed. Rolling over on my back, I couldn't count the number of places that stung and throbbed, but the pain meant I was alive. For now.

Would the vehicle return? I scrambled deeper into the undergrowth, pulling my headphones and phone with me. A bit of perky pop music filtered through the now dangling headphones, and my phone flashed its address book as if inviting me to call a friend. For a second I thought
of calling Cass, who would surely be sleeping. Or the police. Then I imagined Manny telling me I'd overreacted. I pressed the button to mute the phone's sound and listened.

In the distance, on the other side of the gentle valley of the trickling Santa Fe River, I heard a vehicle. The truck—I thought it was a truck—must be taking the higher dirt road back to town. I dared sit up and take stock of my injuries. It was not a pretty sight. A tear in my jogging tights showed gravel-burned skin, raw, filthy, and painful. I could handle scrapes. It was needles I couldn't stand.

Blood whooshed through my head as I forced myself to take stock of the cactus spines protruding from my skin. I'd rolled onto a cholla, sometimes called a walking-stick cactus because of its hard, straight latticework skeleton. If you ask me, the plant looks more like an assemblage of vicious cucumbers, armed with spines and ready to dislodge into flesh at the slightest provocation. Two chubby cholla arms impaled my elbow. Almost worse, barely visible silken slivers carpeted my arms and knees and, I feared, my forehead.

Cringing, I grabbed a chunk of cholla with my nails and yanked. The cactus attacker released my elbow but shot a spine into my hand. Several minutes of unseemly cursing and plucking later, I had removed most of the biggest spines. The small, nearly invisible ones would have to wait until I got home. I wished they'd magically disappear. If magic was on the table, I wished that I was home, still in bed, about to awake to fresh croissants and a steaming pot of French roast.

No magic cure or fairy godmother bearing coffee appeared. I stood with a wobble and struggled out of the brush. The nearest house was a walled estate that had been for sale for nearly a year. I hadn't seen the owners in ages and suspected that they'd moved out. Even if someone was there, they were unlikely to open the door to a queasy, bleeding stranger covered in cactus quills. On the road, I looked both ways. I kept my headphones off and I didn't jog. I ran as fast as I could.

I let myself inside just as Linda stepped out of the kitchen. Her hair was wrapped in a towel and Hugo trailed her, tail raised and puffed.

“What happened?” she asked. “Are you okay? You're bleeding!”

“Cactus,” I said, panting. “A cholla and maybe some other spiny stuff.”

Linda gasped. “Jogging is dangerous. Did you trip?”

“A truck came too close and I jumped off the road,” I admitted. “I shouldn't have been running with headphones.”

Linda shook her head. I expected her to cite a news story about oblivious, music-loving joggers getting smooshed. Instead, she looked concerned the way Flori looks concerned. That is, mad. “What is
wrong
with people?” Linda fumed. “Was the driver texting? Too many people text and drive.”

I admitted that I hadn't seen the driver. “They came really fast.”

“And didn't stop?” Linda asked. “Did they slow down?”

“They seemed to speed up,” I admitted. “But,
like you said, they might not have seen me. Probably texting.” I tried to laugh but instead shuddered.

Linda frowned. “Let's get you fixed up,” she said, changing the subject. “I've had lots of experience with cactus spines, working at the homeless shelter. You're lucky.”

I didn't feel lucky, but I was certainly glad Linda was here. I trudged down the hall and, at Linda's urging, stepped into the tub and ran warm water over my arms. The water felt nice and washed away grit. Yet when I ran a finger over my elbow, dozens of tiny pains prickled through my arm and jolted my nerves.

Linda held my arm gently and inspected the damage. “The tiny ones are the worst. I know a secret, though. Dad taught me. Tape.”

Tape sounded like a first-aid trick Manny would like. Although doubtful, I brought Linda some duct tape and bit my lip as she stuck it on and ripped it off along with spines and arm hair.

“Mmmm . . . did it work?” Linda asked. She peered at my ravaged arm.

“Thanks, it's just great,” I said through clenched teeth, trying to keep things positive. I still felt spines or the pinprick holes they'd left.

“No,” Linda said, shaking her head. “Still some there. We can't leave them. You could get an infection. Glue. That's what we need. That's the trick.”

I was even more doubtful of this approach, although if nothing else, the white glue reminded me of icing, always a sweet thing, and the scent returned me to Celia's grade-school days.

Hugo leaned on my ankle and purred. I reached
down to pet him with my glue-free hand, and he hopped in the tub to bat at the drip of water.

“Blow on your arm,” Linda said, and I saw again what a saint she must be to needy souls at the shelter. Linda, who could scare herself silly crossing a street, was rock solid in the face of other people's troubles.

After a few minutes, she inspected my glue. “Just about right. It has to be dry enough to rip off in one piece but not so dry it'll stick to your skin forever. Never, ever use a superglue. I've seen that before and it's an awful mess.”

I sat on the edge of the tub, dutifully blowing on the glue and feeling pretty content despite the pain and spines. Near death will do that to you. So will a happy cat batting at water and a little pampering by a good friend.

The doorbell shattered my warm feelings. I jumped.

Linda did too. “Are you expecting someone?”

I wasn't. I made a
shhh
gesture, hoping the visitor would go away. The ringing, however, turned to pounding.

“I'll look. You stay here,” Linda said, getting up.

Her kindness propelled me to action. “No!” I said. “Please, Linda. I'll see who it is.”

“I'm coming with you,” she said, grabbing a toilet plunger.

We tiptoed down the hall and I lifted a slat of the front wooden blinds. Heart racing, I peeked out, expecting to see . . . who? Don brandishing a knife? The murderous vehicle, driverless, revving and aimed at my door?

What I saw was a silver Audi idling in the drive
way. A bulldog drooled on my doormat, next to long legs in dark jeans and scuffed cowboy boots. Fear fled, followed by embarrassment. Jake! I had an unfortunate habit of answering the door looking like a mess. The last time he'd dropped by unannounced, I'd just suffered a blender eruption and was covered in a Spanish garlic soup.

He must have spotted the movement of the blinds or felt the wave of embarrassment. “Rita? Are you okay?”

I opened the door a crack, thinking perhaps I could make the excuse of not being fully dressed. Winston didn't allow that. He rammed his massive head through the crack. His handsome owner peeked around the door.

“What the—” Jake started.

“Cholla,” Linda answered matter-of-factly. “And Rita won't say so directly, but someone tried to run her over.”

W
ho did this?” Jake demanded. In a Bugs Bunny cartoon, steam would be puffing out his cowboy hat. His boots would grow spurs, and a roadrunner would zoom by. I stifled an inappropriate giggle, thinking I might be giddy or possibly concussed. I was definitely shaken, although I didn't want to show it.

“It was probably an accident,” I said. “You know how distracted drivers are these days.”

“I know something else about these days,” Jake said. “You and your friends are investigating a murder.”

What could I say? He was right.

Jake's expression softened. “Are you hurt?”

“I'm fine. Really. Linda treated me with glue.” I looked around for Linda. She'd slipped away. From the kitchen, I heard the coffeepot sputter to a start.

“I see,” Jake said, his eyes on a spot above my eyebrow. “And tape?”

Wincing, I yanked a stray bit of tape from my elbow.

“Coffee!” Linda called. She came out, wiping her hands on her pants. “You two talk. I'll walk over to Mom's.”

Before I could protest, she said, “I need some exercise and time to think. Don't worry, I'll look out for cars. I always do.” She nipped down the hall and returned with a box of Band-Aids and her coat already buttoned. Handing Jake the box, she said, “Take good care of her. There are tweezers in here too, along with some disinfectant.”

Lovely. Instead of impressing Jake with a stunning soufflé, I was a disheveled patient.

Jake stepped outside to consult with Linda. Winston woofed happily and barreled down the hallway, Hugo literally on his stubby tail. While the dog and cat duo played, I poured two cups of coffee. Black, the way Jake liked his, and real cream for me because I felt sorry for myself.

The caffeine jump-started my brain, and a question brewed. I sprung it on Jake as soon as he stepped back inside. “Why are you here?” Okay, so this wasn't exactly my best hostess line, but why
was
he here and pounding on my door early in the morning?

“Let's sit,” Jake said.

He held out a kitchen chair for me and laid the box of Band-Aids on the table. Then he sat, moving his chair so close to mine that our knees nearly touched. He leaned in. For a second I expected a kiss. I closed my eyes and waited. Instead of a tender kiss, pain seared through my right temple. I opened my eyes to see Jake wielding the tweezers.

“Got it!” he said, holding up a cactus spike as thick as a toothpick.

I groaned. “I'm a mess.”

“You aren't looking your best, I'll admit that.” He winked to let me know he was teasing. “And, I'm here because
you
called me.”

I did?

Jake leaned in, again within kissing distance. I caught a whiff of manly cologne as he held the tweezers near my forehead. “Hold still, I see a patch of tiny spines. What'd you do? Tangle with half the cactus in Santa Fe County?”

“
I
called you?” I asked, still trying to work that out.

“You did,” he said. “Or at least your phone did. I heard ‘Dancing Queen' and a scream and the line went dead. I tried to call back, but no one answered. Winston and I were mighty concerned.”

Some people butt dial. I arm-dialed while diving into cactus. I closed my eyes again as Jake worked acupuncturist's magic with tweezers. “Just one more . . .” he murmured. “There.” A spine left my forehead, followed by a gentle kiss.

“All better?” he asked.

“Much,” I managed to say. He lowered his face to mine. I leaned in and was nearly barreled over. Not from romance but from fifty pounds of speeding bulldog.

“Hey!” Jake protested as man's best friend thundered through the kitchen, chased by a blur of buff-colored fur. Jake sighed and scooted his chair back, the moment broken.

“Rita, why did someone try to run you over?”
he asked in a tone that suggested he already knew the answer.

“Flori, Addie, and I followed Don Busco last night,” I admitted. “He caught us at it and got kind of angry.” Since no more kissing seemed in the works, I stood and searched the cupboards. For someone who works in food, I had shamefully slim pickings, other than the half-eaten flan. “Homemade granola?” I offered. “It's a bit old, but it's peanut butter.”

Jake had a better idea. “How about I take you out for breakfast? Clafoutis or Tune-Up or do you have a new favorite? It won't make up for that fine, home-cooked meal I missed, but . . .”

The man knew my breakfast favorites and my weaknesses. Clafoutis was the domain of buttery French croissants made by bona fide French pastry chefs. Tune-Up offered New Mexican fare with an El Salvadoran twist. Rationalizing that the fat and calories of flaky, buttery pastry don't count after a near-death experience, I chose Clafoutis and hurried to change into something that was not torn spandex.

O
kay,” Jake said, after we'd ordered coffee and pastries. “You were about to tell me why you all were out tailing Don.”

I tore a flaky corner from my ham and cheese croissant. “We think he was involved in Napoleon's death. A guy Flori knows saw Don by the bandstand around the time of the murder. Don
might be the killer, or know who is. Plus, yesterday on the Plaza, I saw the health inspector's son pass Don an envelope stuffed with cash. Fishy!”

“The health inspector that got poisoned?” Jake asked with a raised eyebrow.

“Yeah, that one,” I said glumly. “He's up to something. The other day, when I was at OhLaLa, Brigitte and I discovered him searching Napoleon's office. First he claimed he was inspecting. When we put pressure on him, he said he was looking for cash that Napoleon owed him.” I raised the remains of my croissant for emphasis. “We think either Napoleon was paying Jenkins for a good inspection or so that someone else—say a rival food cart operator—would fail theirs.”

Jake's steel-blue eyes had a mischievous twinkle. “I'm still imagining you and Brigitte putting pressure on that inspector. Did I understand correctly that pink handcuffs were involved?”

I blushed and tried to hide behind my coffee, which was unfortunately a tiny double espresso cup, not a giant bowl of cappuccino. “Those were Flori's cuffs. Anyway, Brigitte's been searching through Napoleon's financial records. She thinks she's found irregularities. It's all about the numbers, she says. That's the key.” I felt my blush rise again, this time for another reason. “She's . . .” I struggled to find words that wouldn't reveal my jealousy. “She's very persistent.”

Jake snorted. “You can say that again.”

I took note of his tone. “Oh?”

“Yeah,” he said, and I thought I saw a blush rise on his chiseled cheeks. “You may have noticed, Brigitte Voll has been calling me an awful lot
since I met her at that art benefit.” He fiddled with his cup.

Was I imagining it, or did the tough defense attorney seem anxious?

He sighed. “I had to come out and tell her that I'm seeing you, so she wouldn't get the wrong idea. I hope you won't think that's too forward.”

I tried not to beam. Cool and collected, that's how Brigitte would react. On the other hand, Jake Strong was sitting here with me, not Brigitte. “Not at all,” I told the slightly pink-cheeked lawyer.

He grinned bashfully and changed the subject back to crime. “So if Don's the killer, why'd he do it?”

“Napoleon blacklisted Don from his beloved bartending jobs,” I said.

Jake wasn't impressed. “Hardly seems like something you'd kill a guy over long after the fact. Besides, Don seems pretty happy with that hot dog business of his.”

“Well then, what if Napoleon was going after Don's hot dog business, like he did with Linda's cart? That could have set Don off. Maybe he snapped.”

Jake accepted a refill of coffee from our harried waitress. “I can see that. Don's a big guy. Easy enough for him to stab Napoleon and pull Linda's tamale cart over him, although why he'd get someone else's cart involved is beyond me.”

We sat in silence for a few beats before I suggested possible answers. “Linda probably told you that she left a message for Don, asking him to check on her cart. Suppose Don spotted Napoleon messing with Linda's cart and went mad with rage. He stabbed Napoleon and pulled the cart
over him to make a point. That might explain why he keeps saying he'll help Linda. Once he came to his senses, he felt bad for involving her.”

Jake sipped his coffee. “Possible. He'd help her more if he told the truth. You said someone saw Don out by the bandstand that night? Has this witness spoken to the police?”

“No,” I said with a sigh. “According to Flori, this man won't go near the police. He's a chronic thief and somehow related to Don. What's worse is that Don claims he has an alibi. It's Manny, of all people. They were out at a bar that night.”

Jake appeared to mull over this information. “Okay. Good to know. However, none of this explains you getting run off the road this morning.”

I had a flashback of the silver grill barreling toward me. “I can't be sure who it was, and I didn't get a good look at the vehicle. I think it was a truck.” I shivered, involuntarily. “Red like the truck Don drives.”

For a man holding a custard-filled raisin bun, Jake did not look happy. “Rita,” he said. “You should—” He stopped. “I can't tell you what you should do, but I sure hope you'll be careful. Someone killed Napoleon. Got close enough to stick that knife of Linda's in his back and right through to his heart.”

His words sent a chill through me. I clutched my now-empty coffee cup. “I know. But if Don's the killer and getting worried—trying to scare me—maybe he'll make a mistake. Or maybe we can convince that witness to come forward or talk to you. That would help Linda, wouldn't it?”

Jake took his time before answering. “It might
help muddy the waters in a jury's mind. But suppositions aren't evidence. Don won't be the one on trial. Linda will be, assuming I can't get the case thrown out.”

“Can you?” I asked.

Jake studied the packed dining room. A young waitress scurried among tables, refilling coffees, taking orders, and delivering food. I hoped Tres Amigas would be open and filled with customers again on Monday.

When Jake spoke, he seemed to choose his words carefully. “I don't know, honestly. Usually I have a feeling about a case, one way or the other, but this one?” He gazed toward the ceiling with its pale, whitewashed beams. “It's tricky. There's the murder weapon, Linda's knife, with her fingerprints all over it.”

“But anyone could have stolen her knife from her cart.”

Jake recrossed his legs and leaned back in his seat. “That's what I'll argue. The public fight with Napoleon doesn't help her one bit. There's something else too, for your ears only.” He leaned across the table. I leaned in too, recalling the earlier kiss. “Napoleon died eating his last meal, and you know what that was?”

I recalled the crime tech picking up chunks of tamale. “Oh no . . .”

Jake leaned back. “Yep, afraid so. Tamale. Found at the scene and in the mouth of the deceased. The lab has to confirm it, but it appears to be Linda's tamale. Chicken
mole
, the kind she had on special.”

Suddenly my croissant wasn't sitting so well.
“There could be lots of explanations for that,” I said, though I could hardly think of any good ones.

Jake agreed. “I try to think like the prosecutor. Know what he'll most likely say? That it was Linda who was there that night. Napoleon tried her tamale and insulted her and that was that . . . she went wild with anger and killed him. In that case, at least it wouldn't be first-degree murder. The crime wasn't premeditated.”

As theories went, it was more straightforward. Unless you knew Linda. “And then rolled her cart over his dead body?” I said grouchily and too loudly. A young couple at the next table looked over at us. I tried to lower my voice and emotions a notch. “Linda would never do that.”

Jake reached out and took my hand. His firm grasp was calming, even if his words were not. “You and I think that. A jury may not. Rita, there's something else too. Linda's record.”