Bread of the Dead: A Santa Fe Cafe Mystery (20 page)

No one here.

I know some adults who can text faster than any teenager. I'm not one of them. I tapped with my right index finger as quickly as I could.
Look for kitten. Buff.

The reply took some time. I wondered if Jake had gotten the message. What if he was like Manny and didn't care about felines? That would be a sign I'd listen to this time. My thigh buzzed again.
No kitten. Will search. Stay inside. Lock your door!

So much for believing in the innocence of his clients. I herded Linda and Gabe into the casita
,
where I bolted the door behind us.

 

Chapter 24

G
abe, Linda, and I stood in my living room making small talk about my casita and its pretty features. We'd begun extolling the Mexican tile work when Linda turned to me.

“Rita, I want you to borrow my gun. Unless you don't know how to shoot, in which case I'll stay here with you.”

It was quite a switch of subject. I managed some words of thanks, followed by firm assurances that I could do without the gun or a gun-­toting bodyguard. I was still shocked that safety-­worrying Linda owned a gun. Gabe was surprised too, although with the opposite reaction.

“A woman on her own should have some protection,” he said, his expression one of admiration. He went on to compliment Linda on her resourcefulness and bravery.

“It was Santos's gun,” she said, her eyes cast down at her knees. “I never liked it. After he passed, I found it in a drawer. I wanted to toss it, but then my neighbor got robbed walking home from church. That's when I took lessons. Mama says I'll shoot my own foot if I ever have to use it.” She smiled. “She's such a worrier.”

I had to smile at that. Calling Flori a worrier was like calling me a dancer. Sure, it happened once in a while, but only under extreme and exceptional circumstances. I also couldn't help thinking of another surprising gun owner. Victor.

“You're right,” Gabe said, in response to my wondering aloud where the gun came from and why Victor had it. “Vic sure wasn't a gun fan. He only kept that old Remington because it was our dad's.” He paused, his chin drooping. “And because of me.”

I felt awful for pressing him, but I had to know. “You?” I asked, as gently as possible.

He stood by my fireplace, running his hands over the colorful tiles on the mantel. They featured intricate patterns of orange, blue, and yellow and had been a much nicer topic of conversation. Gabe kept his gaze on the fireplace when he responded. “I like to target shoot. That's how I relaxed back when I worked in the emergency room. Victor, he'd sometimes go with me. Brother time, we called it. I'm the one who wanted to go last week, to work off some stress. We hadn't gone in ages. Maybe it's because of me that he got thinking about the gun.”

Linda moved to Gabe's side. “We shouldn't talk about this.” She shot me a frown of disapproval.

I knew I was poking at a hurtful topic. I also knew that the gun was crucial to the question of suicide versus murder. “Where did Victor keep this gun?” I persisted. “If someone broke in, would they be able to find it right away?”

Gabe clutched Linda's hand, both of them scowling at me. I deserved the scowls. I was being a horrible hostess. Not only had I brought up the worst subject imaginable, I hadn't offered tea or snacks. I considered dragging out the cheese crackers or my box of emergency Girl Scout cookies stashed in the freezer. Not even a frosty Thin Mint would sugarcoat this conversation, though. I kept going.

“Please, Gabe. I'm trying to understand. Flori and I believe that someone killed Victor. We have to help him and his spirit.”

“Spirits,” Gabe sputtered, and I saw his knuckles go white against Linda's. “You don't believe all that talk of ghosts too, do you?”

When I didn't respond, he sighed. “Okay, you want to know where he kept that gun? In the wardrobe in his bedroom, that's where. That's all my fault too. I told him to keep it there in case someone broke in at night.” He sniffled loudly and went to the front door. Linda followed.

Gabe didn't seem to hold a grudge. Reaching out, he grasped my hands in both of his. “Rita, I know that you and Flori want to do what's right. The best that any of us can do now is to let Victor rest. Rest in peace.”

I
stood on the porch and watched Gabe and Linda drive off in her car. They were going to lunch at Tune-­Up Café, one of my favorite places. Linda, ever polite, had invited me along. My manners knew enough to decline, overriding my rumbling belly, which craved yummy Santa Fe classics with a Central American flair. I knew just what I'd order too. The
pupusa
special, a Salvadoran corn cake filled with cheese and chiles and served with salty-­sweet pan-­fried plantains, pretty purple cabbage slaw, and savory black beans. The dish was at once exotic and comfortingly homey.

I sighed, wistful and wishing that Jake would reappear with an invitation for lunch. I'd accept, moratorium or not. I craved comfort in food and company. Linda's tamales would have to do. I was about to go inside and reheat some when a friendly “Yoo-­hoo” stopped me.

Dalia Crawford, neighbor and unlikely suspect number twenty-­eight on Flori's list, stood at the top of the driveway waving a gift bag. Seeing my hobbling, she hurried down the driveway to meet me.

“What's going on?” she demanded, tension raising her voice to a squeak. She waved her hands toward my ankle and the neighborhood in general. “I saw police cars again, so toxic for our local aura. And what's happened to you? You're hurt? I should have sensed it. How did I miss it?”

“You're here, right?” I said, trying to make her feel better. “You must have felt the need to come over.”

Strands of hair splayed from Dalia's braid. She smoothed them back and took a deep breath. “Thanks,” she said. “You're right, but my chi is thrown off balance by all of this.”

Tell me about it. I'm sure she'd read my chi as a wobbly disaster. I told her about my sprained ankle and the encounter with Tops. Dalia expressed concern for my ankle and promised to give me the name of her hot-­hands healer. Like Linda, however, she was even more concerned about the not-­so-­gentle giant who'd terrified me.

“Oh, that poor old man living rough in the woods this time of year. Do you think I should leave out some jelly and sprouted wheat bread for him? I have an extra massage table he could sleep on.”

I told her what Jake had told me, that it was best to lock her doors and call the police if she saw Tops. “He could be dangerous,” I said. “He's either a prime witness or a prime suspect in Victor's murder.”

Dalia's hands, clutching the gift bag, flew to her chest. “Murder,” she murmured. “I heard that from the mailman and the neighbors two doors up and some ­people at the natural foods co-­op. Everyone's saying it.”

“Yes, I'm ninety-­nine percent certain of it,” I said stoutly. “My friend Flori is too. Victor would never commit suicide. Not now. Not ever.”

I expected her to agree. Instead, she thrust the bag at me. “Oh Rita, I hate to say this, since you seem so certain.” She scrunched her face into a sad/sorry expression. “It's like I told the co-­op cashier this morning. Honey, I'm sorry, it wasn't murder.”

She sounded so certain that my shoulders slumped under the weight of doubt. Maybe Flori and I
were
wrong. Maybe we only wanted to see evidence of murder because we couldn't admit that our dear friend took his own life. I thought about Gabe's depressing revelations. Victor knew how to shoot. He kept the gun in his bedroom. Spirits sagging, I delayed any reply by peeking in the gift bag. My belly betrayed me, rumbling loudly at the sight of brownies and blondies.

“I know, I know,” Dalia said sympathetically. “Phillip and I loved Victor so much. He was different these last few months, though. Kind of off. I should have done more. I should have seen the signs. There were signs. I see them now.”

What had I missed? Feeling bad, I reached for a brownie. Huge semisweet chunks studded the rich and gooey chocolate treats. I held out the bag to Dalia but she declined to indulge, citing a gluten-­free weekend.

Gluten wasn't about to stop me. Nor were sugar, butter, and chocolate. “What signs?” I asked, after fortifying myself with half of a delicious brownie.

My neighbor shrugged. “Lots. Like I knew it was his birthday last month so I checked the stars. I got really bad indications regarding his spirit.”

I won't say that this lifted my spirits, but I did feel a bit better. Dalia was rehashing what she'd told me before, only focusing on the stars instead of the tarot cards. Neither, in my opinion, was on the suspect list. I'd moved on to munching a caramel-­ and butter-­rich blondie, zoning out as Dalia fretted about Libras with type-­A blood, when she dropped her closing zinger.

“Then there was the will,” she said, as if this was the least of her concerns.

I nearly spit out a butterscotch chunk. “What? A will? You saw a will?”

Dalia bemoaned the ominous position of Venus before getting to the point. “Phillip and I told him it was the wrong star phase for such things, but Victor said he needed two witnesses, so we went ahead and did it. Signed on the dotted line, as they say. I did a sage smudge of the house and garden after he was gone. It reminded me of death. Well, it was a will, after all.”

I got Dalia to translate star dates into actual calendar dates. She estimated that Victor brought the will by about three months ago. “About the time he and Gabe started having all that fence trouble with Mr. Broomer. Now, he has bad chi, that man. I'd like to take some sage to his place.”

I wished that smoky sage was enough to cure Broomer's toxic nature. I also wished I'd paid more attention three months ago. I'd been in the last stages of my divorce around that time. Wrapped up in my own troubles, and worrying about Celia, I clearly hadn't paid enough attention to Victor.

“What did the will say?” I asked.

“Phillip and I didn't
read
it.” Dalia sounded rather offended. “It was nice looking, I can tell you that much. Pretty and artistic, like everything Victor did.” At my further quizzing, she recalled that the document was two sheets of thick cotton paper, handwritten in elegant cursive done with an ink pen.

“And did Victor say anything? Anything at all about who he was leaving his estate to or why he was making a new will?”

Dalia tugged her long ponytail into a faux mustache. “No . . . I don't think so. I can't remember.”

“Think,” I said, in what I hoped was a hypnotic voice. “Think back. Victor's at your door, he's explaining why he's come by—­”

“Actually, he came to the garden. He saw me out planting herbs in the rock wall. Oh, that reminds me, can I dig up some of Victor's tarragon? Word is, it came from Ghost Ranch, grown by Georgia O'Keeffe herself.”

“Sure,” I said, becoming frustrated by Dalia's lack of focus. “It's not my place to say, but I'm sure Gabe won't mind. But think back to the will . . . anything you can remember . . .”

Dalia indulged my hypnosis attempt, shutting her eyes and pressing her palms together. “Yes, I can see him. He's there,” she murmured. “In the garden. He asks us to sign his will. He's brought a nice ink pen and says he's getting paperwork in order. Has to set things right, he says. Has to make sure things are set right.”

She opened her eyes abruptly. “And that's when I told him about the unfavorable celestial alignment, but he wouldn't listen, and he refused a card reading too.” Her brow furrowed in vexation, which cleared rapidly. “Now, let's poke around and look for that tarragon. It should be dormant right now, so no worries about anything dying.”

I shuddered at her words. The death of a pedigreed tarragon wasn't what I was worried about. What had Victor meant about setting things straight? And where was this will?

Dalia made her way to the herb garden under Victor's kitchen window. I followed. The raised beds, bordered by punched tin flashing, had overflowed with herbs and sugar-­sweet cherry tomatoes in summer. Now, frost had withered most of the plants. Only a hardy, curly parsley stood up to the cold.

“Did you tell anyone else about this?” I asked.

Dalia, on her hands and knees, sniffed at frost-­killed leaves. “I'm not one to gossip,” she said. She produced a spade from her pocket and aimed it at the earth. Herb pillaging, I suspected, had been her intent all along.

“Not gossip, but did you tell the police? Did anyone else see you signing the will?”

“Smell this,” Dalia said, holding up a clump of dried leaves in my direction. “Does that smell like oregano to you?”

I agreed that it did, and she rewarded me with a response. “I told the police, of course, when they came by. I thought they should know. It was that nice, fit policewoman and her sour little male partner. She said they'd search his place.”

Her description of Manny made me smile. I was also relieved that Bunny would be on the lookout for Victor's will.

Dalia rummaged through some dead leaves. “Ah! There you are,” she said, addressing a leafless woody skeleton. “Don't worry, my darling, I'll take this little babe here . . .” She plunged her spade into the soil. “Perfect,” she said, holding up a twiggy stalk. “Now what were you asking me again?”

“Who else you told . . .”

Dalia flushed. “Okay, I confess, I came over here yesterday afternoon. I wanted to say a prayer to Victor's aura. You and Gabriel were both out and I remembered the herb garden and started to look around. Well, it would be wrong to let his plants go unloved.” She had the grace to look sheepish. “That's when I met Victor's widow. Can you call an ex-­wife that? I had no idea who she was at first. She came around from the back of the house with that yellow hair of hers and for a second I thought she was a spirit.”