Bread of the Dead: A Santa Fe Cafe Mystery (10 page)

Cass knew me too well. I couldn't deny it. “Flori is making a list too but she won't share it yet,” I told her. “She wanted us to write lists separately and compare. We asked Jake to make one, but he worried about client conflicts.”

“See, he's thoughtful as well as handsome. So who else is on your list?”

I had to admit that she'd nearly doubled my tally with the addition of Jay-­Jay. I had two main suspects. Number one was Broomer. The distant second was a random burglar/killer. However, as Jake pointed out on the drive back from the police station, Victor's home showed no signs of robbery.

“Jay-­Jay's better than your unknown killer,” Cass contended. “She has motive. Victor's art. She'd love to get her hands on that, let me tell you. You know the saddest thing? Now that he's gone, the value of his work will skyrocket.” She caught Donovan's eye, holding up her nearly empty wineglass to indicate that she'd like another.

I considered my long walk home and decided to make my first glass my last. I nursed the drink, watching the restaurant fill up for the dinner hour. I realized that I recognized many of the ­people in the room. Some were fellow cooks and food workers. Others were regular or occasional customers at Tres Amigas or parents of Celia's classmates. It felt nice to feel like a local.

I raised my half-­full glass to Cass's newly filled one and we switched to a happier subject, namely Cass's new superclient.

“She walked in off the street,” Cass said, waving her hands heavenward in a hallelujah gesture. “I couldn't believe it, she was literally dripping turquoise and diamonds, and you know I barely do anything with stones or gems. Well, she saw my plain silver works and said she had to have some. She bought a whole collection, ordered specialty pieces, and recommended me to some of her friends.”

I was about to ask the identity of this mystery woman when Cass clasped her hands together. “Oh look, there she is now.” She rose, wineglass in hand.

I gawked. I knew this woman too. Cass's wealthy client was none other than Flori's baking nemesis, Gloria Hendrix. Cass and Gloria air-­kissed. After three rounds of efficient cheek swaps, Cass introduced me.

“Rita, you know Gloria? Gloria, Rita is an amazing chef who works at—­”

I cut in. “Oh, I've worked in a ­couple places around town,” I gushed loudly, flashing a
Sorry
look at Cass. To cover my rudeness, I launched into compliments, all of them true. “What a gorgeous bracelet! And those rings!”

“By our fabulous Cassandra.” Gloria held out her hands, which sported three sleek silver rings, all effortlessly graceful. Gloria's face was another story. Her lips puffed like overfilled sausages, a feature made more obvious by her otherwise taut, wrinkleless skin. I suspected she had indulged in extra helpings of Botox, eye lifts, and whatever made lips inflate.

“Cassandra, you
must
come to my Day of the Dead cocktail party tomorrow night. I'm having a skeleton theme, of course, and
everyone
will be there.” She drawled out the names of some upper-crust types and hotshot artists, including Salvatore the confident knitter.

Cass handled the invitation smoothly, saying that she'd love to stop by.

I knew that she'd be inwardly cringing. For all her poise and confidence around men and flames, Cass dreads large events. Yet no artist in this shaky economy can turn down a chance for publicity and schmoozing. She had to go. Gloria's frozen face turned to me. “Rita, I hope you'll come too. If you're part of the food scene, you'll absolutely adore what I'm serving.”

I was speechless. She was inviting no-­name me? Should I accept? Would Flori accuse me of cavorting with the enemy? No, she'd be thrilled that I'd have a chance to spy on Gloria's kitchen. This was much better than hefting myself over her wall to trespass. I recovered my manners as Cass was starting to cover for me, citing my busy schedule.

“Thank you, I'd love to join you,” I said, effusing about Gloria's generosity and ending with “I've heard that you're a wonderful baker!”

“Why that is so sweet of you!” Gloria's eyes sparkled behind the Botox mask. “Not to toot my own horn, but I am the reigning queen of death bread. I can't serve it to everybody at the party, unfortunately. I need to wait for the contest. Besides, I'd have too many ­people begging for my secret recipe, now wouldn't I?”

I bet it was a secret. Armida's secret. I kept these thoughts to myself and my face in a beaming smile. Gloria left after issuing instructions that the party attire was black-­tie skeleton.

Cass took a gulp of wine after Gloria left. “Ugh, I hate dress-­up parties,” she said. “And what the heck is black-­tie skeleton?” She sighed into her wineglass.

“Salvatore will be there,” I said encouragingly. Surely his presence made any party better.

My friend was not easily consoled. “Also dreadful. If I go with him, he'll want to drag me around to chat up all the socialites. I'll go with you, though, if you're really going and we can figure out what to wear.”

I had no idea what to wear, but it sounded pretty fun. It was also an opportunity. I confessed my ulterior bread-­snooping motive to Cass, half expecting her to warn me away from her client.

Instead she grinned. “Now that makes the party a whole lot more interesting.”

 

Chapter 11

C
ass invited me to join her and Salvatore at the gallery opening.

“He won't mind,” she'd said. “But I warn you, the exhibit's paint-­drip art.”

Part of me felt tempted, especially when she mentioned the gallery's plans for a chocolate, cheese, and wine spread. Most of me, however, had no interest in paint drippings and being the third wheel. That part of me also wanted to get home, slip into flannel pajamas, and cuddle up under a blanket by the fireplace.

With my scarf bundled around my ears, I set off through the heart of downtown. Despite the chill, the place bustled. Tourists gazed in shop windows decorated in fanciful skeletons and skulls and strolled under the covered walkways, or
portales,
as Flori would insist I call them. As a shortcut, I crossed the Plaza, the centuries-­old square at the heart of Santa Fe.

Tonight, like many nights, a band played on the raised bandstand. I heard a bluesy saxophone first, followed by a familiar voice. Addie sang about a fire in her heart as two skeleton-­costumed backup singers crooned and danced behind her. A puffy down coat gave her the curvy figure she so desired, and she'd attracted groupies. A handful of teen girls and young guys in trendy tight pants swayed in front of the bandstand. Nearby, a few older ­couples danced a two-­step complete with swings and dips. I stopped to listen. Addie spotted me and gave me a divaesque point-­out.

“Sweet, isn't it.”

The deep male voice at my shoulder startled me into again nearly head-­butting its speaker. Jumpiness is like blushing with me, a characteristic I hate but can't stop or grow out of.

“Sorry to scare you,” Jake said, his chiseled face suggesting more amusement than contrition. “Worried about the ghouls?” A group of laughing kids ran past us, dressed as various forms of the undead.

“Nice scarf,” I said, changing the subject. He wore a gray wool overcoat and a loose-­knit black scarf that could have come straight from Salvatore's knitting needles. “Did you happen to get that from a woodworker?”

When he looked puzzled, I tried to explain. “There's this guy my friend Cass is seeing. He makes $12,000 coffee tables and knits at bars, which seems to attract all sorts of women.” I could have kicked myself. Here I was, in front of a man who supposedly liked me, and I was going on about male knitters. This is why I shouldn't date, not until I could overcome small-­talk anxiety and jumpiness in the face of desirable bachelors.

As a ­couple waltzed in front of us, Jake held out a hand in a dapper leather glove. “I sewed a button back on this coat,” he said, nodding to a mid-­chest button secured with a lump of black thread. “Does that mean I can ask you to dance?”

“No!” I blurted out before thinking. Seeing the hurt look on Jake Strong's manly face, I backtracked. “I mean . . . I don't . . .” My mind swirled through all the wrong things to say. Telling him about my dating moratorium would sound silly, not to mention presumptuous. You could dance without being on a date, I reasoned, as a mom-­and-­child dance pair twirled by us. My moratorium wasn't a prohibition against friendly, seasonal exercise.

“I mean,” I said, after taking a deep breath. “I can't dance. Really, I'm bad. Horrible. I can barely clap in rhythm and I'll destroy your boots.” This was sadly and totally true. I lag beats behind in group cheers at sporting events. I've fled step aerobics classes in shame, and I once managed to break my big toe while square dancing. With anything rhythmic, I'm a danger to myself and to others. I looked down at Jake's black boots, polished to a gleam that would never last through any two-­stepping on my part.

He laughed. “Okay, then. We won't do any clapping, and don't worry about these old boots. I wear them to the ranch. Cattle have stomped on them and they've been just fine. I can't see how a petite lady as pretty as you can do them any harm.”

Petite? Me? I was glad that darkness covered my raging blush. From the stage, Addie announced a song request from “her mates.” A song for romance, she said, and launched into a slow, sentimental croon in one of her actual native tongues, Spanish. My limited vocabulary picked up the words for love and parting.

Again, Jake held out his leather-­gloved hand.

I hesitated before taking it. “Okay,” I said. “They're your boots . . .”

He chuckled and moved his feet slowly. I stumbled along, making multiple stutter steps for each of his smooth ones.

“Does counting help?” he asked. “One two two, one two two . . .”

Counting was as confounding as clapping, I regretfully told him. Then I added, “I have
tried
to learn. I've taken dance classes. Two, in fact. Polka and Greek line dance.”

“Very handy skills,” he said. “Nothing sexier than the polka.”

Now I started to worry my blush would stick, especially after he said, “Keep your left hand on my back and feel my movements. Shut your eyes, think of the music . . . you'll be dancing without thinking about it.”

I pressed my hand to his back and he pulled me close. I shut my eyes. I tried not to think of dancing and then, all of a sudden, I was stepping, back and forth, foot after foot.
I was actually dancing
. As soon as I realized this, I faltered and tromped on Jake's boot. He brushed off my apologies and held his hand high, inviting me to spin. Above me, a beautiful swirl of string lights and stars twinkled. I spun until dizzy, finally wobbling to a halt when Addie finished her song and announced her plans to “pop out for a hot cuppa.”

Jake looked down at my bare hands. “You must be freezing. I know a fine place to warm up with a drink. Will you join me?”

I hesitated, rationalizing to myself. Yelling no again would be rude, and I was cold, from my numb fingertips to my popsicle toes. I accepted Jake's invitation, which I assured myself was not a date.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“You may think it's silly,” Jake said as we waited for the crosswalk sign to give us our turn. “But I'm craving hot cocoa from La Fonda. They have killer margaritas there too, of course, if you want.”

“Hot cocoa sounds absolutely perfect.” So did the La Fonda, a landmark hotel and adobe marvel designed to resemble the ancient Pueblo architecture up in Taos. The interior is also fabulous, with colorful painted windows and wood carvings and quirky displays of local art.

Jake held the door for me and a group of happy tourists, laden with shopping bags. Once inside, he led the way to the casual lounge restaurant. I knew about the La Fonda's famous margaritas. Cass and I had indulged in quite a few, especially the night we celebrated my divorce. I'd also heard raves about their chiles rellenos, although I remained loyal to Flori's fluffy wonders. I had to admit that I'd never heard of their hot chocolate.

“It's a secret,” he whispered close to my ear. “I have an inside source.”

I loved the idea of that and the tingle his whisper shot through my body. We sat near a leafy potted ficus, far from a flamenco guitarist strumming madly on the other side of the lounge. Jake caught the attention of our server and asked for Ramando.

“You really have an insider for cocoa?” I asked.

“Yep. Don't tell anyone.”

Ramando, when he tottered in, looked older than the hotel itself. He greeted Jake with a hearty handshake and an effusive exchange in Spanish. The conversation seemed to involve his and his family's eternal gratitude, the holidays, and chocolate. Was he one of Jake's clients? He looked nice enough, and he certainly sounded grateful. Maybe defense lawyering wasn't such a bad job.

Jake turned to me. “No whipped cream, right? Straight up chocolate?”

“No fluff,” I confirmed, “I want pure chocolate.”

“So,” Jake said, in the slightly awkward silence that followed. “I left my knitting needles at home.”

I laughed. “Me too. Although I can't knit to save my life.” We chatted about other things we couldn't do and about our families, his now mainly in the high country outside Taos and mine who can't stand high elevations or aridity.

“No one told my mother that Santa Fe is higher than Denver,” I said, recounting my mother's sudden onset of supposed altitude sickness the moment she realized we were more than a mile above sea level. “After that, she spent most of her time in the oxygen bar downtown.”

It was a nice distraction from sad thoughts about Victor, until the cocoa arrived. The steaming mugs of dark deliciousness sparked a flashback of my last visit with my friend.

Jake sensed my shift in mood. “Is the hot chocolate okay? If it's not sweet enough, I bet Ramando has emergency whipped cream like Flori does.”

I tried to laugh it off. Gloominess, even on a nondate, was not good, as Flori would remind me. Of course, she'd want me to be playing footsie and pinching Jake's butt.

“Victor served hot chocolate the last time I saw him,” I explained, so as not to offend Ramando's delicious drink. “He made it with spices to go with his
bizcochitos
.”

“A man of legendary cookies,” Jake said, raising his mug in a salute. “To Victor. May he rest in peace.”

I seconded the salute, wishing it to be true. “He won't rest, will he? I mean, that's what he'd say. He'd say that a murdered spirit can't rest.”

Jake, a defender of at least some guilty souls, nodded seriously. “A lot of ­people say that the living can't rest either, not until there's justice. It's my feeling that eventually the guilty get the punishment they deserve.”

Hoping for his insider's view on criminal types, I brought up Cass's suspicions regarding Jay-­Jay.

“I've had some dealings with Jay-­Jay,” Jake said carefully. Then he smiled. “I kind of hope it wasn't her. I wouldn't want to defend her.”

This from the man who recently defended an ankle-­biting poodle. “I don't see what she'd gain by hurting Victor,” I said. “I mean, if they were divorced, it's not like she'd inherit anything, right?” As I said this, a pang of worry hit me. Manny and I made wills when Celia was born. I hadn't thought about them in years, but mine left everything to him.

Behind his cocoa mug, Jake's face turned serious. I couldn't tell if it was lawyerly caution or a personal cloud. “In the state of New Mexico, divorce revokes a will made during marriage.” I breathed a sigh of relief, until he continued.

“But, there's really no way to know until Victor's will is submitted for probate. You'd be surprised. The most ironclad will can be hit by claims from third parties or disinherited relatives or a judge set on picking out technicalities. Plus, you never know. If he made another will after the divorce, he could include bequests to whomever he pleased, Jay-­Jay included. Or maybe he didn't have a will at all. That's always a fun bucket of rattlesnakes. Inheritance isn't my specialty, but anything legal can become complex, especially here in New Mexico.”

I added will updating to my mental task list and was about to change the topic when an exclamation through the ficus did it for me.

“OMG! It's you! Talk about fate!”

Fate indeed. Here I was, on a hot-­drink nondate with a hot man, and who interrupts but Manny's girlfriend, Ariel. Wobbling on platform heels, she trotted around the potted tree and leaned over our table, cleavage straining against a tank top that revealed more of her tattoo. It appeared to be a greenish butterfly or maybe a flying dinosaur or perhaps a leaf lettuce. Her eyes sported the same Egyptian cat-­eye liner that my daughter favored. I hoped that Celia wasn't emulating her father's girlfriend.

“Hi Ariel,” I said, rallying my manners. “I didn't know you worked here.” Of course, I hadn't known she existed before last night. She waved her fingertips at Jake. Manners demanded that I introduce him.

“Hey,” she said, in a flirty voice directed at my handsome companion, “of course I recognize you.”

I suppressed the urge to kick her. Instead, I cleared my throat in what I hoped was a meaningful way, and by meaning, I meant a shove-­off.

Ariel didn't leave. She did renotice me. “Yeah . . . I've, like, never seen you here, Reba.”

“Rita,” I corrected.

“Yeah, that's cool. Anyway, I'm sooo glad you're here. Celia called. She got herself in a mess over in Tesuque and I can't go get her until I'm off shift in, what, two hours? Three?”

She reached over and grabbed Jake's wrist, twisting it to see his watch. “Yeah, almost three hours.”

My head spun. Hot chocolate and wine did an unpleasant polka in my stomach. “Celia? What's going on? Is she okay?”

Ariel released Jake's arm to make an
I'll be right there
gesture to a finger-­snapping man in a bolo tie and fringed shirt. “Oh she's fine. She made me promise not to call Manny, so I didn't know what to do, you know? Like, can I break a girl's confidence? But this is perfect. Now you can go get her.”

I could understand not calling Manny. The time Celia got in trouble for drawing chalk graffiti/art at school, Manny went ballistic, threatening to ground Celia for life and charge her art teacher with harassment. But why had she called Ariel and not me? I rummaged through my purse, frantic for my phone.

“She said she tried to call you,” Ariel said in response to my muttering. I interpreted Ariel's tone as smug with a dash of snippy, an interpretation surely influenced by my guilt.

Where was my phone?
I'll admit, I'm not a fan of cell phones. I resent their cost and constant need for charging and intrusive buzzing. And, yes, I do often forget to carry my phone, but today I knew I had it. I'd used it to check on Celia earlier. I had it out to call Pacho when Flori wanted to hitchhike. “I never heard it ring . . .” I gave up rummaging and dumped the purse's contents onto the table. A notepad, enough chapstick for full-­body coverage, and handfuls of old receipts, gum, and napkins fell out, followed with a thud by my phone. My heart dove when the screen lit up.