Cinco de Mayhem (9 page)

A
n hour later Linda came in, her face ashen except for bloodshot eyes. “The police wanted to talk to me again,” she said, rubbing her temples. “They keep asking what I did after I left my cart at the Plaza that day. It's so embarrassing, and Mr. Strong keeps telling me not to say anything unless he's there, but I hate to be rude.”

I guided Linda to a cozy table by the window. “What
did
you do?” I asked gently.

Linda avoided my eyes. “I went home.”

“Nothing embarrassing in that,” I said. I'd have fled home too, right after stopping at the store for several tubs of ice cream.

Linda moaned. “It's worse! I took one of those nerve pills the doctor prescribed me, back from when I had to fly all the way to Florida for a wedding. They knock me out.”

I assured her that there was nothing wrong with that either, and probably healthier than ice-cream therapy.

My friend gripped my hand. “I don't like to take drugs of any kind, Rita, and look what happened. I fell asleep and didn't go turn off my own warmer and move my cart. I was irresponsible.”

“No you weren't,” I said. “I talked to Don Busco. He said you left him a message.”

Linda refused to let up on herself. “He didn't get the message in time. Anyway, my cart is my responsibility.”

Addie, cleaning tables nearby, chimed in. “A
cup of tea! That's what we all need!” Her chipper tone sounded forced and her need for tea bordering on desperate.

I followed her to the kitchen to help, and to check on her. “Addie? Is something wrong?”

She stuffed a handful of chamomile tea packets into a teapot and dumped a packet of milk chocolate HobNobs—her go-to British cookie—on a platter. Her eyes darted to the dining room, where Linda sat, spinning the salt shaker in her hand.

“I may be cavorting,” she whispered.

“Good girl,” Flori said, appearing silently behind us. “I've been telling Rita to cavort a little, and to make magic chocoflan.”

I rolled my eyes.

Addie gripped a HobNob. “I mean, cavorting with the enemy. Not that
he's
the enemy or that I'm really cavorting.” She stuffed the cookie in her mouth and reached for another.

Flori's forehead wrinkled confusion. I took the opportunity to ask for clarification.

“What do you mean, Addie?” I asked.

She swallowed hard. “The guy I've been kinda dating, I think he's the one who found the bug in Miss Linda's tamale! The son of that food inspector. I'd never, ever do anything to hurt Miss Linda, and I'm sure Junior wouldn't either. He's nice and the best guy I've dated in a long time.” She shot me a pleading look.

Flori clasped her hands together. “Fabulous! You can be our mole! Find out what your fellow knows about dirty tamales.”

“Flori!” I protested. “Addie shouldn't spy on her boyfriend.”

“He's not really a boyfriend,” Addie mumbled.

“Why do you modern girls keep denying you have boyfriends?” Flori grumbled. “In my day, if a nice man held the door for you, you were practically engaged.”

When neither Addie nor I answered, Flori patted Addie on the arm. “Are you sure that we're discussing the same man?”

Addie bobbed her head. “Junior. Junior Jenkins. When that food inspector guy said his name, I knew for sure, but I knew anyway. Like Rita said, there's the family resemblance. But Junior's nice and a lot cuter. He's kind and friendly and he plays the accordion. Sometimes, him and his band invite me to sing
corridos
with them. I have to save my voice for my real act, so I usually say no, but sometimes I can't resist.”

“Is that who you sang with last summer on the bandstand?” I asked Addie. “Those songs were beautiful.”
Corridos
were folk ballads, many passed down through generations. My rudimentary Spanish didn't let me understand each word, but the emotion needed no translation. I'd gotten teary-eyed listening to Addie croon about lost loves and broken hearts.

Addie shrugged. “They're okay. Kind of old.”

“Timeless,” Flori corrected. “The tea's probably ready. Let's go keep Linda company.”

Addie carried out the tea tray, cups wobbling precariously. Flori and I hung back.

“Addie could be in danger,” I said. “Or at least involved with a sketchy guy. Should we warn her to stay away from him?”

Flori produced a paperback copy of the
Art of
War
from her apron pocket. “Keep your enemies close,” she intoned.

I thought about Napoleon's unblinking eyes. He'd let an enemy get close. Close enough to stab him in the back.

A
fter Linda returned home, Flori hustled out our last customers, three cheerful ladies who'd been lingering and chatting over a platter of chips, guacamole, and three salsas: roasted tomato, sweet-savory mango chile, and tart tomatillo with cilantro.

“Come again!” Flori said, handing them bags of what I hoped were muffins and not Hot Flash pepper spray.

She bustled back into the kitchen and tucked a similar brown bag into the tote bag of spying supplies.

I wasn't ready to go anywhere. I ignored the implied “let's get spying” message and dipped my spoon into a minisoufflé, my latest version of my date-night main dish. The soufflé had puffed in golden plumes. I took a bite, savored the cheesy, eggy goodness, and then gasped.

Flori reached for her own spoon. I waved her away. “Hot!” I wheezed.

She took a big bite anyway and declared the soufflé magnificent. “Fiery,” she said. “I may have forgotten to tell you. I had extra habaneros so I mixed them with our mild New Mexicans to spice them up.” She took another bite. “You'll have a hot date night for sure if you serve this.”

Yeah, hot as in a flaming tongue and throat. My eyes watered and my ears rang as I rushed for the walk-in fridge in search of ice cream. All I found was some lemonade frozen into ice cubes. I popped one in my mouth before realizing it was the frozen form of Flori's hot-chile-spiked lemonade.

“The texture is lovely too,” Flori said, bravely savoring another bite. “Now, what are you making for dessert?”

I couldn't answer right away. I'd spit out the ice cube, run to the fridge, and was now swirling milk like mouthwash. I swallowed. “Maybe a fruit crisp?” My tongue felt slightly better. My lips still burned. I was trying to dip them in the milk glass when Flori handed me an oozing branch of aloe vera, fresh from a plant by the sink. I pressed the gelatinous end to my lips and found that aloe went terribly with the tastes of milk and remnant hot lemonade.

Flori pursed her lips too, although her distaste was with my dessert idea, which she slammed with faint praise. “Well, warm fruit sounds nice. Healthy. Light. Very, ah, midwestern.”

At least my midwestern homey dish wouldn't set mouths aflame. I thanked Flori for the aloe cure and told her that she could take the rest of the soufflés home to Bernard, who shared her love of hot food.

“He'll adore them,” she said. “I know who else will like one too. My informant.”

“You're planning to torture information out of someone?” I joked.

Flori shoved the tote bag closer to me, shaking her head as she did. “Ida Green hasn't had taste buds for decades. At least, I hope not. Otherwise, there's no explaining that woman's food.”

S
he and Addie left a little later. I headed out too, walking slowly and shifting the heavy tote bag between shoulders. I supposed I should have been glad that Addie had volunteered to accompany Flori to Ida Green's notorious bail bonds/diner on the south side of town. Out of the two-dozen restaurant owners Flori had called, only Ida would admit a run-in with the health inspector. Others had hung up (suspicious), said they never heard of Jenkins (also suspicious), or warned Flori never to utter his name (very suspicious). Ida, however, was more than happy to dish on Jenkins. She'd invited Flori to tea, a scary prospect, as Ida's cooking is riskier than her high-interest bonds. The joke goes that Ida's tortillas can serve as prison shanks and her tamales as blunt-force weapons. Her green chile stew ranks among the infamous, gray and gelatinous as if made with a gravy of old shoes.

On the other hand, Flori's information-gathering was out in the open. I was off to secretly interrogate a would-be friend. For support, I stopped by to see a true friend first.

I found Cass in the soldering studio at the back of her shop. “I'm a bad person,” I told her, leaning against the door frame.

Cass turned off her torch and lifted her goggles. The flame gulped for air, popped, and disappeared.

“I'm sure that's not true at all,” she said. Using copper tongs, she picked up a ring, black from the flames, and dropped it in a chemical bath called “pickle.” The name, she once told me, came from real pickle brine, an old-fashioned, all-natural way to remove fire char from metal. Chemical pickle worked best when warm, and Cass simmered hers in a mini Crock-Pot. I reminded myself yet again to never borrow any of her Crock-Pots, tongs, or pickles.

“Oh, it is true,” I said, going over to peek into the miniature cauldron. “I'm pretending to be a supportive friend to a woman in mourning, but really I'm pumping her for information.”

“There's worse stuff going around,” Cass pointed out. “Murder. Running over dead guys with tamale carts. Cockroaches. That kind of stuff.” She fished a different ring from her pickle vat and held it up. A single raised ridge snaked around the wide band. A man's ring, I guessed, or a ring for a bold woman. I glanced at my unadorned fingers. Cass had volunteered to outfit my fingers, but since my divorce, I hadn't wanted rings of any sort. I wouldn't, however, mind one of her gorgeous necklaces. I picked up a pendant from the nearby table. Using a saw blade slimmer than angel hair pasta, Cass had sliced the outline of a crow into the center of the metal. Her work
was so intricate that she'd captured an open-beak caw and hooked feet.

Cass rubbed the ring with a buffing cloth. “So, I'm guessing you're on your way to see Brigitte?”

“Yes. I want to ask her about Napoleon's dealings with a dirty health inspector and our old bartender pal, Don Busco.” I filled Cass in on our main suspects so far. “And I have to consider Brigitte a suspect too,” I said, trying to laugh off this last part. “Colleagues and the closest people to the victim, you know.”

Cass snorted. “Well, if you're feeling guilty, I can help. You don't have to worry that Brigitte killed that awful little man, although I can see why anyone might want to. I can alibi her.”

“You?” I asked, about to add,
That's great!

Cass frowned and buffed the ring harder, revealing the deep shimmer of silver. “That night, the one when Napoleon died? We were both at a benefit dinner. It lasted forever,” she said with a groan.

I stifled a smile. My glamorous friend, blessed with charm and beauty, poise and bravery, and more dating offers than she can rebuff, becomes a cowering introverted wimp at parties.

“We were both stuck there until midnight!” she exclaimed, making it sound like the partygoers had been held hostage. “I wanted to leave after dinner, but I'd foolishly let Salvatore accompany me. There was a band he wanted to see that didn't start playing until eleven, and people began dancing. Of course, Sal insisted on staying for that.” My single friend managed a smile, which
I thought completely reasonable. Salvatore is an amazing woodworker and a gorgeous man who has the confidence to knit in public. I've seen him knit, and if he can make that sexy, he's probably causes swooning on the dance floor.

Cass shrugged. “Sal
is
a good dancer. I told him, though, at midnight I turn into a wicked witch. We left at 11:59 sharp. Brigitte did too. I remember because we were all collecting our coats, and she got her English wrong and said she'd turn into a squash.”

If only I had an exotic French accent to blame when I mixed up words. A natural propensity to dance would be nice too. However, if Cass could fill me in on Brigitte's alibi, one of my wishes would come true. I could cross Brigitte off the suspect list and drop by as a supportive friend trying to solve her boss's murder. I asked Cass about the benefit.

“It was for art in public schools,” she said. “It's a wonderful cause, although we had to listen to endless boring speeches. The speeches went on over dinner, and I sat at a table with a view of Brigitte, so I know she suffered through them all.”

She grimaced, looking like she wanted to tell me something more.

“And . . . ?” I asked. Was it the food? Had Ida Green catered with her bail-bonds fare? Were the speeches that bad?

“Then there was a silent art auction,” Cass continued. “Brigitte was there. She and Salvatore joked about a piece of art glass they both bid on. She won.” She shrugged. “Just as well, I told Salvatore. Glass is not his style. Too fragile and transparent.”

“Okay,” I said, seeing why Cass had been ex
hausted by the evening. “So, she's there for dinner, the auction, and then there was dancing?”

Cass shook her head. “I know, right? Way too much! I'd have paid double to stay home.” She put the ring aside and picked up an amoeba-shaped bit of silver, likely on its way to becoming a pendant. Using a round-headed hammer, she tapped gently around the sides of the pendant, curving the metal as she created a ripple of dimples.

I raised my voice to be heard over the hammering. “And you saw her dancing and then leaving around the same time you did?”

Cass nodded, tight-lipped. So what was the problem? She couldn't still be grumpy about socializing past her witching hour. I used a Flori technique and waited, staring at her in silence.

“Okay!” Cass said after a minute. She stopped hammering. “Here's the thing . . . Jake was there.”

“Okay,” I said. Repeating what the other person said is another one of Flori's interrogation techniques, acquired from a Senior Center class on boardroom success.

“Don't worry,” Cass said quickly. “He was there with a business date. Not a date, date. A client. He was with Georgio Andre the art thief.”

“Alleged art thief,” I said automatically and with a wry smile. “Jake got him acquitted in time for Christmas last year. I hear he's facing new charges, though?” My smile came easier now that I could see Jake enduring dinner speeches with Georgio, a tall, dark, and flashy art collector who favored suits the colors of eggplants and was rumored to acquire some of his pieces in not-so-legal ways.

Cass shivered. “Honestly, I get crawly skin if that man slithers within ten feet of me.” She waved her hammer as if fending off Georgio. “I'm sure he was involved with that latest break-in on Canyon Road. Not far from your house, Rita! And he's rich enough to buy his own art, so he must be a crazy kleptomaniac or thrill seeker. I don't know how Jake does his job sometimes. If I had to stand up for people I knew were guilty and try to get them free . . .”

“Some must be innocent,” I said, to reassure myself as much as Cass. “Like Linda.”

“True,” Cass said. “Others aren't so innocent.” She looked me in the eye. “Like Brigitte Voll, who spent the night flirting up your Mr. Strong. There! That's what I didn't want to tell you! That's why I kept an eye on her the whole evening!”

“Flirting up?” I asked over my quickening heartbeat.

“Definitely flirting. And dancing,” Cass replied darkly. “Lots of dancing.”