Cinco de Mayhem by Ann Myers

feeling both helpless and two-faced.
    Just yesterday I’d been spying on Napoleon, seeking out his weaknesses. I’d called him a jerk, in my mind and out loud. He had been a jerk, I rationalized. There was no sin in thinking the truth. But Brigitte didn’t need to hear it, and I certainly hadn’t wanted him dead.
    She thanked me and patted her already perfect hair, cut in a short, angled bob that matched her put-together nature. Her pale blue eyes, though ringed in red, lifted with her attempt at a smile. “You are kind, Rita. I will be fine. There will be some closure soon.”
    â€œClosure?” My head snapped up. Winston stopped drooling long enough to whine plaintively.
    Brigitte, already halfway through the door, turned. “Bunny told me as a friend. I suppose I can tell you as a friend too. She says they have a good lead on the killer. They are questioning her, in fact.”
    Now I was the one with stuck words. I gawped at Brigitte. “Her?”
    Brigitte shook her head sadly. “The tamale lady. Bunny said she’s all but confessing.”

Chapter 5
    J ake emerged nearly an hour later. A long hour, during which I called Flori and Celia and risked Winston’s negative feelings toward uniforms. Flori threatened to mobilize an elderly tai-chi army and storm the police station. I’d talked her down, so far. Celia said she’d get a ride to school with a friend, deemed the murder “sick,” and urged me not to worry. “Dad will find who did it,” she said, showing a daughter’s love—and naiveté—of her father. Winston, indeed, had issues with uniforms. He growled in all directions as I hurried us through the police station lobby and down the hall to a coffee vending machine. The brown liquid burned my fingers through the paper cup and tasted bitter and dank. I gulped it anyway, desperate to clear my head of the fuzzy ache signaling a caffeine-addict headache. The caffeine helped, but I didn’t like what I was hearing from Jake.
    â€œThere’s some good news, I suppose,” he said, rubbing his temple. “Linda didn’t exactly confess. That’s a start.”
    â€œDidn’t exactly?” So much for headache relief. Tension tapped across my forehead, taking over where the caffeine deficit left off.
    Jake shook his head and glanced at Linda, who stood a few yards away staring at a neglected flower bed.
    â€œI’ll tell you,” Jake said. He kept his voice low, which made it deeper and, I hated to think it at such a time, even more alluring. “I rarely have clients who won’t stop talking about how guilty they feel. Mostly, they yell that they’re innocent. All this apologizing makes things, well, let’s say ‘challenging’ for a defense attorney.”
    From what I’d heard, many of Jake’s clients should be apologizing. I didn’t go there. Instead, I said, “Linda’s shaken up. Finding Napoleon dead like that, it was a shock. For me too.”
    Jake’s smile warmed me. So did his hand on my arm. His next words, however, sent a chill to my core. “Linda has to understand the situation she’s in, Rita. You should as well. As the police say, she has motive, means, and opportunity. She fought with the deceased the day before. Her cart was literally the scene of the crime. She sounds guilty. The police will look at her, hard.”
    I already feared that and told Jake what Brigitte had said. “Bunny basically told Brigitte that they had their suspect.”
    Jake watched Winston spin in a circle, clumsily chasing a moth. “I got that impression,” he said. “If I could have, I’d have lassoed Linda anddragged her out of there, but she kept saying she wanted to stay and help. She has no alibi other than an early bedtime and being nice. She’s going to help herself right into a murder conviction.”
    The coffee roiled through my stomach.