Cinco de Mayhem (28 page)

Addie agreed with this. “It's true. I know bartenders who soak up almost as much gossip as you, Miss Flori. Oops, I mean, information, not gossip.”

Junior pushed away his plate. I still didn't trust him, and not only because he was pushing away a delicious breakfast. I was half tempted to steal his bananas, fried to caramel sweetness. “I think you've just given us more reason to suspect your father of Don's murder. Don't blackmailers keep asking for more and more money?”

Junior grinned. “You fixed that problem, didn't you? You and that Brigitte woman. Once you caught Dad messing around in Napoleon's office, the police went and interviewed him. Dad convinced them he was consulting on restaurant sanitation. He was about to go give Don Busco a
surprise
inspection to get his money back.”

Flori muttered about grubby business, and I agreed. I felt dirty simply hearing about the deceit. The yogurt helped. I took a bite of cleansing fruit and considered our living suspects, among which I counted Gerald Jenkins Senior. The man knew food. He could have sickened himself to eliminate suspicion. And what about Don? I no longer thought he murdered Napoleon, but he must have known who the killer was. He'd gambled, both at the casinos and with his life.

I tried a new angle of questioning with Junior. “Where did your father go the morning he was poisoned? Before visiting Tres Amigas?”

Junior moved his eggs around some more. “Who poisoned him, you mean? He thinks Don did it. Or maybe Crystal or one of those taco guys? Pretty extreme, huh?”

Brigitte had already told me that Jenkins Senior had gotten juice from Crystal. I wondered what else he'd consumed. I asked his son.

Junior admitted that his father liked to get freebies, offerings made to butter him up. “A perk of his job, as long as he knew the place was really clean,” Junior said. He then went on to list menu items from pretty much every cart on the Plaza.

“Who does he
think
did it?” Flori asked.

Junior's slumped shoulders rose a fraction before falling again. “Crystal? She got snippy with him. Told him not to mess with her again. Plus, he said her tamarind juice was way sour.”

“It's supposed to be sour,” I said through an exasperated sigh.

Junior sat up a bit straighter. “Yeah, well, she was mad. So was one of the taco guys when Dad
cited him for not using gloves. Dad got bagged chips from him, so I guess they weren't poisoned. Don Busco was really ticked. Dad didn't even eat at Don's, thinking Don might spit on his hot dog or something gross.”

“So Don couldn't have poisoned him either,” Flori said.

Junior perked up. “Wrong!” he said smugly. “Think about it. The police would check places he ate, right? They'd think Don was in the clear. Thing is, Dad's got a bad shoulder, so he left his heavy satchel on a bench when he was inspecting some carts. Dad's theory is that Don sneaked over and put poison in his coffee thermos. After he got out of the hospital, he confronted Don. Don warned him to drop it. Said he was handling things and leave it alone.”

Some handling. Don was dead, Linda was in jail, and I feared the killer would strike again.

A
fter breakfast, Addie wanted a “wee private chitchat” with Junior. Flori and I went to the Plaza, the scene of the original crime.

“I don't like Addie's boyfriend,” I said.

Flori was less concerned. “That girl has zero intuition when it comes to cooking. With people, though, she's pretty good.”

“Mmm . . . I still don't like him.”

Flori stopped and took in the view over the historic Plaza. She reached over and squeezed my hand. “We don't always like who our children or friends date, do we?”

That was for sure. I felt I'd dodged a bullet—hopefully—with Celia and the orange-haired skater kid. Another thought hit me. “You
do
like Jake, don't you?”

She chuckled. “Rita, if I were forty years younger and not forever in love with that old fool Bernard, I'd be vying with you for that man. You
keep after him. Don't let that dinner date get away from you.”

We walked toward the bandstand. Flower petals lay scattered on the stage. In the middle of the petals stood Don's hot dog cart, draped in black ribbons and white carnations.

Brigitte and Crystal had set up their carts at the nearby corner, facing the Palace of the Governors. Crystal turned away when she saw us. Brigitte waved.

I noticed that the Free Linda donation bucket was no longer on Crystal's cart. Crystal wasn't offering us any free juice either.

“Don't involve me in this anymore,” she said after Flori and I stepped in front of her counter. “I stood up and supported Linda at the rally. I did my part. Then I got to thinking, look what happened to Don.”

Crystal opened the freezer chest on the side of her cart, chipping noisily at the ice with a metal scooper.

While she was occupied, Brigitte sidled next to me and whispered, “I am watching her extremely closely.” She bobbed her head toward Crystal. “I have the day off from OhLaLa so I come here to observe and make crepes. It is, as you Americans say, all good.”

Crystal straightened, holding a cup half full with ice, which she rattled nervously. “I'm not saying Linda's guilty, but the police did arrest her. Let them handle it. They know what they're doing. That's their job!”

Beside me, I could sense Flori bristling.

“Sorry, Flori,” Crystal murmured. Louder, she
said, “I am really, truly sorry. Look, Don's dead. So's Napoleon. And that food inspector got poisoned, and Rita, weren't you run over?”

I touched the bandage on my elbow and tried to turn the conversation around. “Who brought Don's cart over here? Wasn't it evidence?”

Crystal and Brigitte exchanged weak smiles. “We both did,” Brigitte said. “We drove by to pay respects, and his cart, it was outside the yellow boundary tape and it looked so . . .” She seemed to struggle for the right word.

“Lonely. Sad,” Crystal offered. “Tragic, like its owner was murdered in cold blood. Besides, Don would want to be here. It's Cinco de Mayo. A big day for people drinking and wanting hot dogs. So sad.”

I glanced at the sad cart and reminded myself that its owner was a blackmailer. Did Crystal know that firsthand? If she had an affair with Napoleon, maybe Don picked up on it and was blackmailing her like he had Jenkins. She wouldn't want anyone, especially her husband, to know. I couldn't very well ask her here. She hummed “El Rey” and polished her juice containers. For someone claiming fear and sadness, she seemed in a pretty good mood.

I made excuses to leave, saying that Flori and I wanted to pay respects to Don's cart.

“There's an autograph book,” Crystal called after us. “Be sure to sign!”

The spiral notebook lay open on the counter where Don had dished up his hot dogs and entertaining tales. Flori flipped through the pages. “Cute cart,” she said.

“Don was pretty proud of this cart,” I said, stepping behind the counter. No wonder he had liked working here. Fresh air, nice views, happy people . . . mostly. I recalled Junior storming up and thrusting the envelope at Don, not even keeping the offered hot dog. Don hadn't tucked the envelope in his pocket. He'd seemingly slipped it into his cart.

“Cover me,” I said to Flori. “Do something normal and boring like checking your phone.”

Flori took her cover a step further, holding her phone to her ear while complaining loudly about how people were so glued to their phones these days. “It used to be, you left the house and people who wanted to get in touch with you simply had to wait. My grandmother never had a phone. If people needed to say something, they had to walk over in person. That cut down on needless chatter.”

During Flori's monologue, I checked the steamer compartment, a drawer containing bagged buns, and another filled with tongs. I felt under the counter and scanned the wheels. Nothing. I was replacing a bag of buns when I felt something hard. I squished them again before stuffing the whole bag inside my jacket and telling Flori it was time to go.

W
e sat at a picnic bench near the corner where Tía Tamales should be. I hid the bag under the table and felt through the soft rolls to the objects at the bottom.

“A phone,” I said, bringing it out. “And something else.”

Flori and I inspected the other device. It was about the size of a TV remote. Flori, who claims to have no use for newfangled electronics, identified it as a voice recorder.

“Not as nice as mine,” she said. “That would never fit in our brassieres.”

I looked around. Among the people strolling and taking photos, none seemed interested in us. Flori and I put our ears to the device and pushed the On button. I expected Don's voice. The sound made me shiver.

“Like a horror movie ghoul,” I said. I told Flori about the voice modifier Brigitte had found in Don's office.

“He did love working on all those movie and TV sets,” Flori said, shaking her head. “He fell pretty far, poor man.”

The poor man on the tape, if it was Don, was issuing a threat. “I know what you did and have photos to prove it,” the ghoul voice said. “Leave five thousand dollars, cash, under the first pew in La Conquistadora's Chapel by ten
A.M.
tomorrow. Or else.”

I listened again. “Why record this?”

“Stage fright?” Flori suggested. “Forgetful? When my Bernard has to change our answering machine, it takes him at least four or five tries and then he still forgets to say our names.”

I turned to the phone next. It was a small flip phone, the type that used to be cutting edge before large, smooth screens came into fashion. Cautiously, I turned it on and learned that it had most
of its battery charge left. Punching the arrow buttons eventually brought up the recently called list. Three numbers, unlabeled, filled the tiny screen.

Flori urged me to call. “Go ahead. See who answers. Then we've got him, the killer.”

“Or he has us,” I said with a shudder. “Thanks to the TV news and Crystal's big rally, everyone knows Don is dead. Why would they pick up?”

We sat a minute in silence before Flori said, “The killer knows that Don—a blackmailer—is dead. What would you do if a dead man called you?”

“Not pick up,” I said.

Flori had a bright-eyed gleam, the very opposite of my dismal feelings. “No, no, Rita. If you're innocent, you'd answer. You'd be curious. But, what if you're guilty, and you killed Don because he was blackmailing you? If Don's phone called you, you'd worry that he had a partner or someone he told. You'd want to know who you had to kill next.”

I dropped the phone on the picnic table as if it was a radioactive hot potato. “All the more reason not to call!” Crystal's fear and admonishment seemed perfectly reasonable.
Let the police handle it.

Flori, however, had grabbed the phone and was pressing redial on the third number. I made a halfhearted attempt to stop her. She batted me away. Resigned, I scooted closer to her and we listened as the phone rang and rang.

“Don't say anything if someone answers,” I warned Flori.

“No one's answering to say anything to,” she said. “Look over there, though. Was Crystal just checking her phone? My bifocals don't see that far.”

Crystal, half turned to us, was tucking something into her pocket. Flori hung up and dug her miniature binoculars out of her tote bag. She aimed them at Crystal and asked me to hit redial again.

The phone rang a dozen times, during which Crystal chatted with a customer.

At Flori's urging, I tried the second number. To my horror, the recipient answered immediately.

“Santa Fe Health Inspector's office, Amanda speaking, how may I direct your call?”

I hung up on Amanda.

Flori nodded knowingly. “Figures,” she said. “It's not surprising he called Jenkins. Let's try the last one. Three's the charm.”

Or the killer.
I took a deep breath, hit Call, and we both plastered our ears to the phone. The phone again rang with no answer.

“Could you look up the number?” Flori asked. “Can't your fancy phone do that?”

My Google searching came up empty. So did calling information and even Flori's friend who worked in bill collection and could usually trace anybody. Our best lead so far looked like another dead end.

I ran my hand through my hair, tugging it back. “Maybe I should pretend we never found this and trick Manny into discovering it. His tech people can trace the unanswered numbers.”

“Mmm,” Flori said, absently. She nudged me. “Pat down your hair, dear. Hot lawyer at high noon.”

Jake, deep in conversation with Georgio Andre, might not have seen us if Flori hadn't waved both
arms as if guiding in an aircraft carrier. The men came our way. Both smiled, Jake pleasantly, Georgio slimily. Flori and I got up to greet them.

“Ladies,” Georgio said. He threw an arm around me, saying to Jake as he did, “Excuse us, Rita and I must have a private chat about art and other important matters.”

“We can stay here and chat,” I said.

Georgio, however, was practically dragging me off. I caught Jake's eye and the hint of a frown. Georgio stopped a few feet away by a tree. “So, your lock-picking, it went well?”

“We got in,” I said grudgingly. Then I added, “Thanks. Truly. I have your lock-pick. I'll get it back to you—”

“Keep it,” Georgio said smoothly. “I do not need it. Now, with the murder and the tiresome trumped-up thievery charges against me, it is best if I do not have it, I think.”

It was best if I didn't have it either. Still, I thanked Georgio again. His alleged criminal ways had come in handy.

He tried, and failed, to look bashful. “All my knowledge is from books. I am an avid reader.”

So was I. I read lots of mysteries. That didn't mean I'd become a criminal. Well, except for the breaking and entering. A thought occurred to me. “Georgio, say you wanted to blackmail someone using a phone like this.” I held up the little clamshell phone.

His lizard lips parted. “Ah, a topic I have read about. Of course, I would never do something unlawful. In books, however, you would use a burner phone, like the one you hold.”

He held out his hand and I gave him the phone. “Yes,” he said. “Ideal. This type of phone, you can purchase at the store with no contract or record. You are well on your way to extortion, Rita.”

I ignored the extortion part and pointed to the two unknown numbers. “These are unlisted. We've tried looking them up and asked a bill-tracer friend of Flori's. No luck. How can I find out who they belong to?”

Georgio pondered this, standing too close as he did. I sneaked a glance over my shoulder and saw Flori entertaining Jake with cookies. I was grateful that she had packed snacks in her tote bag of spying goodies.

Waving a slender finger in the air, Georgio signaled that he had an answer. “Perhaps you cannot.”

“I can't?” I asked, demoralized.

Georgio's smile stretched. “I propose a beautiful scenario. Say you want no record of owning this phone.” He held the clamshell aloft and moved so close our hips bumped. “Say also you want no record of the other person receiving your call? It is easy and elegant. Use two disposable phones.”

“So you assume the person you're calling has a spare phone and they willingly give you the number?”

He held up his empty hands. “Feel your pockets. Or allow me . . .”

I stepped back and grabbed at my pockets. There was the phone in my jacket pocket. Georgio had accomplished a sleight of hand right in front of me.

He smiled, pleased with himself and the sub
ject. “Yes, how surprising for the receiver. How frightening, to have a strange phone ring in their pocket and on the other line a demand for cash. I like this idea very much. There are many applications.”

Great, I'd inspired new deceit in Georgio. Wouldn't Jake be pleased? He already looked vexed, despite holding a cookie. With Georgio following, I returned to the picnic bench.