Cinco de Mayhem (5 page)

The word “body” didn't come.

“It's hard to comprehend,” I said. “I'm so sorry.” I took the hug initiative this time. “Call if there's anything I can do,” I told her, feeling both helpless and two-faced.

Just yesterday I'd been spying on Napoleon, seeking out his weaknesses. I'd called him a jerk, in my mind and out loud. He had been a jerk, I rationalized. There was no sin in thinking the truth. But Brigitte didn't need to hear it, and I certainly hadn't wanted him dead.

She thanked me and patted her already perfect hair, cut in a short, angled bob that matched her put-together nature. Her pale blue eyes, though ringed in red, lifted with her attempt at a smile. “You are kind, Rita. I will be fine. There will be some closure soon.”

“Closure?” My head snapped up. Winston stopped drooling long enough to whine plaintively.

Brigitte, already halfway through the door, turned. “Bunny told me as a friend. I suppose I can tell you as a friend too. She says they have a good lead on the killer. They are questioning her, in fact.”

Now I was the one with stuck words. I gawped at Brigitte. “Her?”

Brigitte shook her head sadly. “The tamale lady. Bunny said she's all but confessing.”

J
ake emerged nearly an hour later. A long hour, during which I called Flori and Celia and risked Winston's negative feelings toward uniforms. Flori threatened to mobilize an elderly tai-chi army and storm the police station. I'd talked her down, so far. Celia said she'd get a ride to school with a friend, deemed the murder “sick,” and urged me not to worry. “Dad will find who did it,” she said, showing a daughter's love—and naiveté—of her father. Winston, indeed, had issues with uniforms. He growled in all directions as I hurried us through the police station lobby and down the hall to a coffee vending machine. The brown liquid burned my fingers through the paper cup and tasted bitter and dank. I gulped it anyway, desperate to clear my head of the fuzzy ache signaling a caffeine-addict headache. The caffeine helped, but I didn't like what I was hearing from Jake.

“There's some good news, I suppose,” he said, rubbing his temple. “Linda didn't exactly confess. That's a start.”

“Didn't exactly?” So much for headache relief. Tension tapped across my forehead, taking over where the caffeine deficit left off.

Jake shook his head and glanced at Linda, who stood a few yards away staring at a neglected flower bed.

“I'll tell you,” Jake said. He kept his voice low, which made it deeper and, I hated to think it at such a time, even more alluring. “I rarely have clients who won't stop talking about how guilty they feel. Mostly, they yell that they're innocent. All this apologizing makes things, well, let's say ‘challenging' for a defense attorney.”

From what I'd heard, many of Jake's clients
should
be apologizing. I didn't go there. Instead, I said, “Linda's shaken up. Finding Napoleon dead like that, it was a shock. For me too.”

Jake's smile warmed me. So did his hand on my arm. His next words, however, sent a chill to my core. “Linda has to understand the situation she's in, Rita. You should as well. As the police say, she has motive, means, and opportunity. She fought with the deceased the day before. Her cart was literally the scene of the crime. She
sounds
guilty. The police will look at her, hard.”

I already feared that and told Jake what Brigitte had said. “Bunny basically told Brigitte that they had their suspect.”

Jake watched Winston spin in a circle, clumsily chasing a moth. “I got that impression,” he said. “If I could have, I'd have lassoed Linda and
dragged her out of there, but she kept saying she wanted to stay and help. She has no alibi other than an early bedtime and being nice. She's going to help herself right into a murder conviction.”

The coffee roiled through my stomach. Winston lunged at the moth, missing. I handed over his leash to Jake and went to dump the half-full cup of acid brew in the trash. On my way, I collected Linda.

“It's okay,” I said, when she apologized again for getting me up early. It was okay that she'd gotten me up. Everything else was not.

Jake offered to drive us. “I'll take you ladies wherever you'd like to go,” he said. “Where to? Home?”

I didn't hesitate. “Tres Amigas.”

F
lori met us at the back door, giving each of us, including Winston, a hug. The warm, inviting kitchen smelled of bacon, roasted chiles, and baked goods. Juan stood at his griddle, overseeing rows of perfectly round pancakes. The cakes were tempting, but I gravitated toward the coffeepot and something else. A buzz, like chattering cicadas, emanated from the dining room. It was nine-fifty on a Tuesday morning, a time when the café was typically pretty empty. People should be at work or school or getting on with their day, not filling up every table.

“What the . . . ?” I blinked, taking in the crowd. “Did a tour bus come by?” That happened sometimes. Juan dreaded tour buses and the crush of
urgent and oftentimes menu-modifying orders they involved. Although I loved sharing tourists' excitement about Santa Fe, I wasn't in the mood to explain unfamiliar menu items or New Mexico's official state question, “red, green, or Christmas?” The question refers to chile choice. I used to dither about my answer. Not anymore. Christmas is the way to go. Spicy green chile on one side and smoky, earthy red on the other. Delicious.

“Not a bus, me love. Supporters.” These chipper words, in full-on faux British, came from Addie, our part-time waitress and backup cook, the latter in emergency situations only, as Addie can burn just about any substance except water and maybe even that. The British arises from what Addie considers striking similarities between herself and English pop star Adele. She and the real Adele share the same May birth date, although our Addie's younger by several years. Both are fabulous singers, with a love of wigs and belting out bluesy soul music. The similarities end at their figures. Addie consumes double helpings of New Mexican classics, trying to achieve Adelelike curves. To her despair and my envy, she remains as thin as a walking-stick cactus. Her accent isn't exactly going smashingly either, despite studying
Downton Abbey
and chatting up any customers presumed to be British, including a few Australians, Swedes, South Africans, and Canadians.

“See those in the fancy dress?” she said, pointing to a mostly white-haired contingent on the east side of the room. She clasped her hands together, pleased. “Miss Flori had me send out a text to them and they popped right over.”

The “they” in question wore bands around their foreheads, like sushi chefs wear, except apparently improvised from our stock of chile pepper napkins.

“Flori's gossip network?” I asked.

Addie giggled. “That's the right name for 'em, isn't it? Informants, that's what she called 'em. Amazing how many of the old dears have smart phones now. The other side, they're supporters too, only different.”

“Different?” I asked, but Addie was being summoned to the dining room by an elderly man waving a butter knife and his coffee cup our way.

“Oops!” Addie exclaimed. “I promised coffee and muffins and a side of beans and more syrup and Bob's your uncle! Ta!” She grabbed a coffeepot and was off.

Addie had picked up “Bob's your uncle” from a British skit show. I wasn't sure what the odd idiom meant and kept meaning to ask. Now was not the time, though. There were pancakes to serve and coffees to refill. Maybe. I bent to tie my shoe and by the time I looked up, everyone in the dining rooms was on their feet.

Addie bustled back with two empty coffeepots in her hand.

“What's going on?” I asked. “Are they all leaving?” I wouldn't mind if they did. I craved peace and time to think and eat my own breakfast.

Flori's ninja-attired friends raised their mugs in the air. The other side of the room stood too, clapping loudly.

“No, not leaving,” Addie said, smoothing her ruffled apron, a patchwork of English tea towels.
“Jolly rowdy out there, isn't it? Those in the karate costumes, they're from Miss Flori's exercise group and supporting Miss Linda. They mostly think she's innocent. The blokes on the other side . . . well . . .”

I scanned the other side of the room, recognizing the faces of cooks and waiters, dishwashers and a smattering of food cart owners. Some cheered, others whistled. No one appeared to be mourning. They were all, to use Addie's term, jolly.

Addie put my fears into words. “Those over there, some of them think Linda's innocent too. Some others, they think she knocked Napoleon off and are right pleased.” She frowned. “Miss Flori didn't say whether the doubting types get free pancakes or not.”

The rowdy foodie side of the room began to chant Linda's name. Confusion evident on her face, Linda ventured out among them, lending her shaky hand to high-fives.

“How can anyone think Linda's guilty?” I asked. I said this indignantly and rhetorically. I didn't notice that Flori, in her ninja-silent sneakers, had sneaked up behind me.

“I can see how,” she said.

W
hat?” I demanded. I knew I sounded righteous and probably rude, but how could Flori, Linda's mother, say such a thing? I'd never suspect Celia of a crime. Okay, I had accused Celia of drunk driving once. I was wrong, although Celia
did have an open beer can in the vehicle. I'd also believed she was responsible for artistic cactus tagging (she was), rogue wall murals (again true), and sneaking out after her curfew (not that a curfew has ever worked with her anyway). But murder? No way. Never. Certainly not an intentional, brutal murder followed by a crushing with a tamale cart. I'd never say or think such a thing about my daughter. I hoped.

Flori raised one arthritic finger after another, ticking off perfectly valid reasons to suspect her eldest daughter. “Linda fought with Napoleon in public. She refuses to flirt and thus lives alone and has no alibi. She has motive. That horrible man, God rest his soul, was trying to destroy her business. He stole her spot on the Plaza. He planted bugs in her tamales.” She stopped to shake her finger. “Mark my words, Rita, Napoleon was behind that bug in Linda's tamale. It's a clear frame-up. In any case, he ended up dead under Linda's cart. Very rude of him, although I'd expect nothing else. He called tamales peasant food. He insulted New Mexican chiles. Imagine! He compared
masa
to soggy sawdust and—”

“Okay, okay,” I said. “Yes, those are all reasons, but other people had the same or similar motives. What about all of them? The jolly ones?” I pointed to the potential murderers taking cell phone selfies and raising toasts and flashing V for victory signs. The only good thing about their glee was that they were happily throwing down cash, enough to alleviate Addie's worries about stingy tips for free breakfasts.

“We may as well serve 'em more cakes,” Addie
said. She called over her shoulder, “Juan, keep flipping.”

Juan grunted.

A chill ran through me. “Any one of them could be the killer.”

“Then they should tip us extra for Miss Linda's trouble,” Addie said. She narrowed her long fake eyelashes and pointed to a table doling out a stack of bills. “Like them over there. They seem happy. Wonder who they are?”

Flori squeezed in between us. “I have all their names,” she said, waving a small notepad. She handed me the pad. “I noted which ones seem extra happy and which think my Linda's guilty. Of course, maybe the killer would say that Linda's innocent.”

“Ah, as a trick,” Addie said, tapping her forehead and inadvertently dislodging her wig.

Or maybe the killer would stay home and not go out for breakfast, free or otherwise. I took the proffered notepad and studied the names. They were all in different handwriting, some with added smiley faces and inspirational statements, like, “You go, Linda!” and “We stand behind you!” and “We understand!”

You had them sign their own names?” I asked, impressed with my friend's boldness.

Flori grinned. “I told them I was keeping a memory book, like old people do. Young folks can be so gullible.” She patted my arm. “Not you, of course, dear. You're a keen sleuth. As soon as we get rid of our freeloading friends out there, we can get to work.”

“Work?” I asked. Feeding people was our work.
But I didn't need keenness to figure out what Flori was about to say.

“Catching the real killer,” she said matter-of-factly.

“Jolly good!” Addie exclaimed, raising her hand for a high five.

I reluctantly raised my hand. Addie slapped it hard as my stomach dropped.