Bread of the Dead: A Santa Fe Cafe Mystery by Ann Myers

what actually happened. He’s in heaven no matter what, in my book.”
    â€œMine too,” I agreed, as did Linda, who sniffled her way out to the dining room.
    Flori and I chopped mounds of onions as an excuse for teary eyes. She commandeered some of the onions for her stew pot. “Chorizo and corn chowder for the soup of the day,” she said, before starting up her questioning again. “So what did you and Victor talk about?”
    â€œThat’s the thing . . .” I’d replayed the conversation in my mind for hours, trying to come up with any clue or hint in his words. “He told me all about his Day of the Dead altar. He showed me pictures of his ancestors and talked about the special food he was going to put out.”
    â€œHis father loved rice pudding with mangoes on top,” Flori said, shaking her head sadly at another friend lost.
    â€œYeah, and a deck of cards for his uncle and marigold wreaths to attract the spirits. He said something similar to what you told me. The Day of the Dead is a happy time, that we’re to celebrate life and those who’ve gone before us. He had a lot of plans to welcome them back.”
    Flori’s mouth was set in a firm line. I could imagine her mind turning.
    I smashed garlic for her soup and tried to explain what kept running through my head. “There was this odd bit too. I didn’t understand it. He said that some spirits haunt us.”
    Flori’s dark eyes narrowed. “Haunt us, he said? Which ones?”
    â€œThose not at rest.” I repeated his words exactly as I remembered them. “And there’s more . . .” By the time I finished describing the fight with the neighbor, Broomer, Flori was drumming her fingers on the table. When I stopped talking, she thumped her fist down, sending cutlery clattering.
    â€œI knew it! I knew Victor wouldn’t kill himself!”
    I’d had the same thoughts, though suspicion didn’t make them true. But I had no time to tell Flori so. Our short-­order cook had arrived, the griddle was sizzling, and Linda was unlocking the front door, letting in a stream of customers begging for coffee.

 
    Chapter 6
    W ell,” Flori demanded, mid-­breakfast rush. “How should we go about this? I have time to break into Victor’s place this afternoon.” She pointed to her wrist, where a plastic sports watch dangled. It was neon orange, matching her sneakers and the grinning pumpkin ornament stuck in her bun of silver hair.
    I didn’t care what time she was free for a break-­in. I wasn’t coordinating watches or breaking into a possible crime scene. Luckily, I had an excuse.
    â€œSorry, I have an appointment with the police this afternoon.” I suppose I sounded rather righ­teous. In truth, I dreaded this task and the likely encounter with Manny.
    Flori tapped her small, sneakered foot. “That might work,” she replied, ambiguously.
    The less I knew, the better, I decided. Anyway, I had more immediate concerns, like balancing the waffle special on my wrist. I’ve waitressed off and on since high school. In all that time, I’ve never mastered the art of plate balancing. Splay your fingers, a frustrated front-­of-­house manager used to yell at me. Splaying makes no difference. As soon as I take on more than two plates, I tense up and begin to wobble. I also tend to forget orders moments after they’re uttered and have been known to refill water onto diners’ laps and grate cheese on their heads. Let’s just say that serving isn’t my greatest culinary strength.
    A sausage rolled toward the precipice of the waffle plate. I overcorrected, sending a little pitcher of blueberry syrup crashing into the waffle stack.
    Flori took this moment of weakness to quiz me on the time of my appointment and potential points of entry into Victor’s place. A window? A vulnerable glass door? A