Cinco de Mayhem (8 page)

The male anchor, Todd, the one with a great wave of newscaster hair, shook his head sadly. “I ate at Chez Napoleon just last week. A fabulous meal and a once-in-a-lifetime experience, it seems now.”

Vanessa, his female counterpart, lamented that she'd never gotten a chance to go to either of Napoleon's restaurants. “A tragedy,” she said. “The sudden death of a revered chef. Let's turn to our coverage, recorded earlier on the Santa Fe Plaza.”

There was the scene, replayed. Milan Lujan reverently questioning Manny. His concerned face, his blatant nod toward the crime scene van. The cameraman had gotten a great shot, zooming in close to Linda's festively painted cart, zooming out to Manny adjusting his serious crime-fighter scowl.

I let out the breath I hadn't realized I was holding. Milan would now say, “Back to you Todd,” and I'd go to bed, foregoing more arroyo warnings and sports scores. Except Milan didn't say that. The frame flashed to her standing outside Chez Napoleon, Napoleon's namesake gourmet restaurant. Milan gave the location, and the cameraman panned across the marble-tiled patio with its tiered fountain. Water poured out the mouth of a weathered stone face straight from a medieval church.

“This murder may not be as easy to solve as the police hope,” Milan said. “After our filming on the Plaza, an anonymous informant alerted us to the possibility of deep corruption involving a city official. Government sources refused to comment, as did the chefs and manager here at Chez Napoleon.” The camera changed perspective suddenly, and Brigitte Voll came into focus in one of the large paned windows. She must have sensed the camera's shift because she drew back, out of view, into the dark interior of the restaurant.

Poor Brigitte. The last thing she needed was to be hounded by the press. I felt responsible and vowed I'd call her for that coffee. I'd take her some soup. I'd get her some nice flowers or bake her a cake or . . .

Milan's perfect eyebrows were center frame again. “Diners, chefs, and kitchen workers in the City Different won't rest easily until the brutal murderer is brought to justice,” she said.

I pulled the bedcovers to my chin. Forget cake and flowers. I'd warn Brigitte to watch her back and tell my friends at Tres Amigas to do the same.

T
he food inspector arrived at high noon the next day. He stood in the doorway of Tres Amigas, the bags under his eyes sagging as much as his wrinkled suit, slumped shoulders, and low-hanging jowls, which reminded me of Winston's bulldog flaps. Winston, however, was a whole lot cuter, drool included.

Addie had alerted me to his arrival. “Oy,” she'd said, in a bit of misplaced Australian. “That bloke over there's asking for you.”

I'd peeked through the pass-through, expecting Milan and her news camera, fearing that Manny had blown my anonymous cover. When I recognized the inspector, I ducked to counter level.

“Did I do the wrong thing?” Addie's fake lashes widened. “He wanted to know who was asking about the health inspector. He says that's him. I remembered you and Miss Flori yesterday saying you wanted to find that inspector, and here he is, right at our doorstep.”

“You did the right thing,” I assured Addie. “Nothing's wrong.” I held back adding
yet
. “Will you go look for Flori?” I asked her. “I think she's in the pantry. And here . . .” I gave up hiding, grabbed a hairnet from the box on the counter, and squished it over Addie's wig. Then I grabbed some more plastic hats for me and Flori and a resistant Juan.

“No hair, see?” Juan patted his head.

This was untrue, I told him. He did have hair, even if it was buzz-cut to near baldness. He also had the shadow of a thin mustache and skinny beard hugging the ridge of his chin, clearly distinguished by a shaving line of laser-cut crispness. I wondered if we had any beard guards. Probably not. Tres Amigas had been all
amigas
until Flori, conceding that she might need extra help, hired Juan and some guys to help with occasional heavy lifting.

Juan was looking mutinous. Could I improvise a beard guard by looping the cap around his prominent ears? I leaned closer, tilting my head as I considered his facial fuzz.

“No!”
he said, eyes narrowed, guessing my intent. For added emphasis, he shook a spatula at me. “No way! You put a shower cap on my face, I go home. Addie can grill.”

It was a good threat, considering all that Addie could set alight on a grill. I reconsidered Juan's skinny stubble. Maybe the inspector was here by chance, for a simple meal and not hair checks. Maybe he'd heard about our famously fluffy
chiles rellenos
or Flori's legendary blue corn waffles, which were on special today with Cinco de Mayo
toppings of chorizo, roasted jalapeños, fresh Mexican farm cheese, and sweet chile maple syrup or savory chorizo gravy.

“The food inspector, he's over there,” I whispered to Flori when she came in cradling a jumbo-sized bag of chocolate chips. Her hairnet rested on the rims of her glasses. Addie's perched atop her wig, jauntily tilted in beret fashion.

“How did he know to come here?” I murmured, knowing full well. I'd opened my big mouth and brought trouble on us.

“I called his office and told him to come on over,” Flori said, plopping the chocolate chips next to the olive oil, sugar, and cocoa already set out for her so-called healthy muffin.

I gaped at her. Practicing the deadliest and slowest martial art is one thing, but purposefully asking a health inspector over? Flori was brave. Maybe too brave for her own good, not to mention the café's.

“Why?” I demanded. “What'd you say?”

She smiled, sly as a tai-chi-practicing fox. “I told him we had a few questions. Questions about his dealings with Napoleon.”

I winced. Flori kept on explaining. “Now, his name's Gerald Jenkins, and my sources say there is indeed talk of him being buyable. Word is, you can pay your way out of bad inspections.” She thumped the bag of chocolate. “I'll bet you that he takes bribes the other way too, bribes to cook up violations. That's what I intend to ask him about.”

“Isn't this against your
Art of War
practices?” I asked, dreading any encounter with the man in the ill-fitting suit. “I mean, would your guy Sun say to invite the enemy to our café?”

I sneaked another peek. Jenkins was approaching the only empty table, the one overlooked by the mariachi band. He frowned, rightfully so, at the trumpet player. My mind flashed through possible public health and safety violations involving creepy mannequins.

“Piffle,” Flori said, straight from Addie's British Empire playbook of scoffing sounds. “The
Art of War
says to gather information on your enemy. ‘Those with all the information win,' or something like that. In any case, we don't have time to fool around being coy. It's like flirting. Best to be direct.”

She made a tush-pinching gesture, grabbed the coffeepot, and was out the door before I could object. I tugged down my shower cap and followed Flori into battle.

M
r. Jenkins!” Flori exclaimed. “So good of you to come. Coffee?”

Jenkins straightened to a more upright slouch. He eyed the coffeepot, craning his neck around it as if he had X-ray vision for germs.

“Fine,” he said, after perusing the spotless pot. “But I prefer my own cup.” From his oversized coat pocket, he produced a plastic bag holding a thermos. He unsealed the bag and removed the top cup, daintily grasping the handle with the tips of his right index finger and thumb. Twisting the thermos top off too, he said, “Refill this while you're at it, and I'll need something sweet. One of
those cookies.” He pointed to a jar of
bizcochitos,
New Mexico's official state cookie.

Flori poured and took a seat across from him. Making a show of using hygienic tongs, I selected three anise-flavored cookies from the jar and placed them on a clean plate. I pushed the plate in front of Jenkins, pulled a chair close to Flori, and perched on the edge of the seat. No way could I get comfortable by this man.

“Mr. Jenkins, we've heard that you had a certain business arrangement with the recently deceased Chef Napoleon.” Flori leaned in, thrusting out her chest. This, I guessed, was not one of her flirting moves. More likely, she had her tiny tape recorder strapped to her brassiere again.

Jenkins sniffed then sipped his coffee. “My business is food establishments and making sure they meet city codes.” He took a cookie and looked around Tres Amigas, his gaze lingering on the ceiling and the festival of Cinco de Mayo décor. An orange and pink piñata donkey swayed, seemingly on its own. Horrified, I watched as it stirred up a faint puff of dust, lit by a sunbeam.

Flori leaned in so far that she was practically lying on the table. “That's not what we heard. Tell him, Rita.”

Tell him what? That I'd insinuated to Albuquerque's finest news crew that he was dirty and possibly involved in a brutal murder? Flori nodded to me, encouragingly.

“You know,” I said, vaguely yet pointedly.

“Yes, we know that you know,” Flori added, thumping her fist on the table.

Jenkins tilted his head and I saw that his crown
was thinning. He'd let the remaining hair, a mix of wiry gray and wispy strawberry blond, grow long enough to fluff over the bare patch. “Know what?” he said. “What's wrong with you people? And what's with all this junk on your ceiling? This isn't Mexico. It's
New
Mexico, and we have strict health codes.”

“There's nothing about piñatas in our health code,” Flori countered. “And what Rita means is, we know that you and Napoleon were colluding to put Tía Tamales out of business. Now tell us the whole story and maybe we won't go to the police or the press.” She tapped her fingers on the wooden table and added ominously, “Maybe.”

“Maybe I'm due to check out this place.” The inspector might be rumpled, but his voice had a sharp edge. He tugged in the lapels of his shapeless suit coat. “How about I start right now? Or should I surprise you later?” His watery eyes scanned the room.

What had I missed in my cleaning spree? The ceiling and mariachi band, that's what. They hadn't been touched. And what about the salt and pepper shakers? I glanced at the salt shaker inches from Jenkins's hand and noticed a fingerprint smudge. Or maybe it didn't matter. Someone who could plant an entire cockroach in a wrapped and steamed tamale probably would have no qualms about sprinkling around mouse droppings. Did Jenkins have some on hand, in another plastic bag stuffed in his pockets?

Flori would not be cowered. “Linda Santiago is my daughter, Inspector. If you think I'll leave any tainted tamale unturned, you don't know me.” She thumped the table with her fist.

Goose bumps rose on my arm. Flori was a fierce tigress mother protecting her daughter.

But Gerald Jenkins had a threat of his own. “Ma'am, if you had any evidence of wrongdoing, you wouldn't have asked me here. You'd have gone straight to my boss or the police. Tell you what, if you care so much about your daughter, I can make that bug report go away.” He picked up another cookie. “Think about it,” he said. “Have your daughter call me. Or you call me. Either way. We may be able to come to a mutually agreeable arrangement, if you understand what I mean.”

I understood him. He'd essentially demanded a payoff right here in front of me, Flori, and the mariachi band.

He drank his coffee slowly, siphoning it through his teeth. The liquid in the cup barely diminished with each sip. I willed him to glug it down and leave. He was a disturbing man, slimy under his rumpled suit. But there was something else too.

“You look familiar,” I said. Squinting, I tried to figure out what was bugging me.

The left corner of his lip curled up. “You were on the Plaza the other day, weren't you? The day I had to shut down Tía Tamales for violating health codes? I remember you and your friend getting in the way.”

“Not just that . . .” I willed my brain to connect the dots.

He shrugged and pushed back a stringy lock of strawberry blond hair. That was it! The red hair. The jowly jaw. “Do you have a son, Mr. Jenkins?”

His frown told me that I was on to something. I turned to Flori. “The young man who ‘discovered'
the bug in Linda's tamale had red hair too and a striking family resemblance.”

“Is that so?” Flori said, narrowing her eyes.

Jenkins siphoned up more coffee. “Yeah. So what? That was my son, Junior. He's got my name, and I guess he picked up my nose for food contamination too.”

Flori and I exchanged a knowing glance. Addie, wiping down tables nearby, gasped and hurried back to the kitchen.

“Good to know, Mr. Jenkins,” Flori said. “Come on, Rita. We have work to do.”

F
lori expressed disappointment when Jenkins finally left without paying. “Great job connecting Jenkins to the bug finder,” she said to me. “I was hoping he'd be more blatant, though.”

“He wasn't blatant enough for you?” I asked. “He basically threatened us.”

She patted her chest. “I know. I had my tape running. Too bad he didn't come straight out and ask for cash. Maybe we can provoke him. I'll read ahead in Sun Tzu and see if he has any ideas.”

Flori headed for the pantry before I could question Sun Tzu's wisdom in this case. I was thinking of a tactic from Manny's favorite philosophical guide: sports. Defense, that's what we needed. I reached for my bleach bucket and a mop. If Jenkins found anything dirty in Tres Amigas, it would be because he planted it.