Cinco de Mayhem (22 page)

T
he couple next to us glanced up warily from their eggs Florentines. Okay, I'd yelled, “Linda has a record?” louder than I intended. Now I prayed that our table neighbors weren't gossipy locals or potential jurors or news reporters. A group walking past gaped at me. Too late, I recognized one of the women as a member of Linda's choir group.

Jake outlined the bare details, basically all he knew. “You can do me a favor, actually,” he said as I considered stress-ordering, and consuming on the spot, a dozen chocolate madeleines. “I have the records, the official paperwork, but Linda says she doesn't want to talk about the past. I need to know the full story in case those convictions are brought up in court proceedings. Typically, they couldn't be, but a crafty prosecutor might worm them in.”

I could imagine Linda's refusal to speak. She'd
happily reminisce about friends and relatives and past holiday feasts, but when it came to talking about herself or her now-deceased husband, she clammed up.

“I need to know if I should be a little or a whole mess of worried,” Jake said. “Flori will tell you, won't she?”

I hoped so. My mind was still whirling, and this time it wasn't from my tumble in the cactus. I couldn't believe that Linda had a record. And not just
a
record. Jake was saying that she had multiple arrests and was named in a handful of domestic disturbance reports. I knew that her deceased husband, Santos, had been no saint. Far from it. Santos was a bully and a mean drunk. The domestic disturbances made me both sad and mad. Mostly mad. But the arrests? I repeated my bafflement several times on the drive back to my casita.

We stepped inside to find Winston flopped on the cool tiles, tongue out and panting. Hugo purred contentedly on the back of the sofa.

“Did Hugo wear you out, sweetie?” I asked, patting the bulldog's hot, wrinkled brow.

Still, Winston whined when Jake put on his leash. “Gotta catch up on work, buddy,” Jake said to the dog. Jake paused on the porch. He reached out and gently touched my scuffed forehead before cupping my chin and drawing me in for a kiss.

My knees wobbled. “Oops, too much running,” I said, trying to cover.

He smiled down at me. “Too much jumping into cacti. Promise me something?”

I crossed my fingers, prepared to fib and say I'd give up investigating.

“No more early morning jogging, okay? At least until we find out who did this.”

That I could promise.

J
ake left me in a jumble of emotions. Selfishly, I was still aglow over the romantic French breakfast and kiss. On the other hand, I had nearly been run over and
Linda had a record?

I called Flori before driving over to her house.

She met me at the door. “Linda just left. On her way to church again.” Flori narrowed her eyes at my scuffs and bandages. “She told me what happened to you. It's darkest before the storm, I told her, although that's hardly a pick-you-up, is it?”

It was about to get darker. I suggested to Flori that we sit on her lovely back sunporch with her cat Zozo. Once the portly orange feline had jumped on her lap and started kneading, I brought up the subject of Linda's arrests.

“Yes,” Flori said simply. “My eldest daughter has a record, but it's not what you might think.”

I wasn't thinking anything. My mind still couldn't wrap itself around even the idea. “For what?” I asked, wishing I had a chubby cat to cuddle.

My elderly friend screwed up the side of her mouth. “A misdemeanor for disorderly conduct,” she said. “She and a dozen others got kicked out of a city council meeting years ago for protesting a nuclear waste dump.”

Okay, this wasn't bad. I relaxed and enjoyed
the view of tiny yellow finches flitting among similarly bright forsythia flowers. Flori explained young Linda's noble efforts to secure clean drinking water and keep us all safe from radioactivity and cancer. I felt better. If the prosecutor brought this up, Linda would look like the saint she was.

Relieved, I'm afraid I drifted off in thoughts of breakfast and kissing.

Flori's next words, however, snapped me back to reality. “Then there's the battery of a police officer charge. That's probably what has Jake worried.”

I gaped at Flori. Outside, the finches flew away in a cacophony of high-pitched chirps.

Flori petted a purring Zozo. “The assault was a load of . . . well . . . rotten eggs. So long ago too. My dear girl was only in her early twenties then and passionate about civil rights and environmental issues. She was at a big protest in Albuquerque that got out of hand. You know how Albuquerque can be. You know young people too. So headstrong and stubborn.”

Celia was headstrong and stubborn. My mind reeled through a horror flick of Celia building a rap sheet.

“But Linda?” I asked. “Assault?”

Flori had her eyes on the garden and a puffy gray cat stalking through a patch of ornamental grass. The feline prowled across the patio, then looked our way. I held its wide-eyed gaze for a moment before it crouched and slunk back under the forsythia.

“Mrs. Baca's cat, Sir Dennis,” Flori said with a smile. “He's all bluster. Dennis never catches anything. About Linda, there was a lot of shoving. An
officer claimed that protesters shoved him, when really the police were backing them into a corner. It was a trumped-up charge and everybody knew it. Linda did some community service. I told Linda, there are ways to get that off your record, but she said she didn't care. Said it doesn't matter, she was proud of her efforts.” Flori turned to me. “It matters now, doesn't it?”

I tried to summon Linda's calm confidence in the face of another's pain. “We'll clear her. I'm not scared of Don Busco.” I lied. I was scared of the big man, but I feared more for Linda.

“Good,” Flori said. “Because I know how we can spy on him.”

F
lori's idea was a good one, except for my guilt. Later that morning, I stepped up to Crepe Empire, ready to infiltrate the food carters. I was a mole, a deceiver, a false friend, and I'd have felt a lot better if Brigitte hadn't been so delighted to see me.

“But what has happened to you?” she asked, frowning at my many bandages and scrapes. “You were in an accident?”

No accident, I thought, glancing toward Don's hot dog cart. He was busy ladling chili over hot dogs and chatting to customers. Was he regaling them with cowboy folksiness or a story from his time in the film industry? I remembered liking Don's tales during his bartending days. He'd always seemed so friendly. Not now.

“I had a run-in with a vehicle while jogging,” I
told Brigitte, my hand reaching for my forehead. “I look worse than I feel, and it's probably good if I keep up and moving. I'll understand if you don't want me around, though. I might scare away your customers.” I halfway hoped she would shoo me off. I'd called her earlier, saying that I had the day off and would love to help her with her crepes. Salvage her crepes would be the more accurate term, but I already felt too much like a false friend to say that.

“
Non
,
non
, I am delighted! You give me hope. Together, we will conquer the crepe.” She came around the front of the sleek cart and gave me a painful squeeze. Lowering her voice, she said, “I will tell you and only you, Rita. I do not know what the problem is. My crepes, they flop when they flip and they splatter and people give them back and want a return of their money. I was starting to think that Napoleon may have been correct about my poor cooking abilities. But with you here, Crepe Empire will again be the best on the Plaza.”

And I could spy on Don without being accused of snooping. Tying an apron around my waist, I stepped behind the round griddle and surveyed the setup. The little cart was better equipped than some kitchens. Brigitte turned on the sound system to soft French café tunes. I stirred a speckled buckwheat batter, my mood perking up as I anticipated crepe delicacies.

I started feeling better about my outdoor spying too. It was a sunny Saturday. Petunias and pansies bloomed in planter baskets, robins prowled the grass, and the Cathedral bells rang out, announc
ing a quarter to eleven. We still had time for some crepe instruction before the main lunchtime rush.

“Okay, first thing, your batter is a little thick,” I said. I stirred the batter, which fell in clumpy globs when I raised the spoon. “This is more like an American pancake batter. You want a thinner consistency for crepes.” Under my instruction, Brigitte whisked in more water.

“Now, a nice coating of oil on the griddle.”

Brigitte added oil and reached for her ladle.

“Wait.” I held out a hand. “You want the oil almost smoking, otherwise the crepes might stick and they'll be hard to turn. Now, when the grill's ready, spread the batter quickly but evenly and monitor the bubbles and edges. The batter will turn from glossy to firm and set on the sides. That's when you flip.”

I demonstrated how to spread out the batter using a T-shaped wooden tool designed for just that purpose. We waited a minute, and then Brigitte attempted to flip the lacy circle.

“It tore,” she said with a pout. “I want perfect.”

“Practice will make perfect,” I said, resorting to platitudes to cover my distraction. Don was bent over, rummaging in his cart. When he emerged, he held a bag of buns. No cash or smoking gun. Was this a waste of time? No. If nothing else, maybe Brigitte could learn to make an acceptable crepe. The next crepe flipped perfectly, and we filled the golden shell with grated Gruyère cheese, paper-thin slices of smoked ham, creamy horseradish sauce, and a sprinkling of emerald chives.

Two hours later we'd served a lot of crepes,
many of which our customers, and even Brigitte, labeled as perfect.

“Rita, this is fantastic,” she gushed. “
Magnifique!
You are the best of teachers and friends.”

I blushed at her heaping praise.

“But why do you keep admiring Don Busco?” she asked, punching me in the arm in a way she probably meant as girlfriendly. “Are you interested in him too? He is handsome in his cowboy outfit, but not as handsome as your Mr. Strong. And that mustache, it is no good.”

I covertly massaged my arm where her punch had landed on a patch of cactus-spine holes. “Oh, I'm just checking out your competition . . .” I said.

I'm a terrible liar. Some people would say that's a good thing. Not Flori, who periodically threatens to send me to fibbing camp.

Brigitte narrowed her eyes, scanning from Crystal's juice cart to Don's hot dog stand. “Rita, you are investigating, yes? Is that why you work at Crepe Empire today? If so, you must let me help. I can tell you that the food cart operators are edgy, talking of murder and poisoning. Look at Crystal. She hides behind her juice and avoids us.” Brigitte leaned close to me, practically cheek-to-cheek. We both eyed Crystal, or rather the perfectly bouncy curls on the back of Crystal's head.

“See?” Brigitte said. “She cannot look at us, and I think I know why.”

Obligingly, I asked, “Why?”

Brigitte tossed a crepe with such vigor that it flipped twice before landing. “Guilt,” she proclaimed.

I waited, sensing that Brigitte would go on.

She did. “Yesterday morning, guess who visited Crystal's cart? The health inspector.”

“Jenkins Senior? Did he drink anything?”

Brigitte looked over both shoulders before answering in a triumphant whisper. “Yes! She gave him juice. I do not know what kind. It was brown.”

And poisonous?
I supposed I could imagine Crystal—or anyone—acting under extreme emotion. I couldn't see the perky mother of three undertaking premeditated poisoning in broad daylight.

Don's booming laugh floated our way and sent a chill down my arms. “Hot dogs!” he yelled. “Red hot chili dogs straight off the flames! Come and get 'em if you dare!”

“Or there is him,” Brigitte said.