Cinco de Mayhem by Ann Myers Page B

everyone in the dining rooms was on their feet.
    Addie bustled back with two empty coffeepots in her hand.
    â€œWhat’s going on?” I asked. “Are they all leaving?” I wouldn’t mind if they did. I craved peace and time to think and eat my own breakfast.
    Flori’s ninja-attired friends raised their mugs in the air. The other side of the room stood too, clapping loudly.
    â€œNo, not leaving,” Addie said, smoothing her ruffled apron, a patchwork of English tea towels.“Jolly rowdy out there, isn’t it? Those in the karate costumes, they’re from Miss Flori’s exercise group and supporting Miss Linda. They mostly think she’s innocent. The blokes on the other side . . . well . . .”
    I scanned the other side of the room, recognizing the faces of cooks and waiters, dishwashers and a smattering of food cart owners. Some cheered, others whistled. No one appeared to be mourning. They were all, to use Addie’s term, jolly.
    Addie put my fears into words. “Those over there, some of them think Linda’s innocent too. Some others, they think she knocked Napoleon off and are right pleased.” She frowned. “Miss Flori didn’t say whether the doubting types get free pancakes or not.”
    The rowdy foodie side of the room began to chant Linda’s name. Confusion evident on her face, Linda ventured out among them, lending her shaky hand to high-fives.
    â€œHow can anyone think Linda’s guilty?” I asked. I said this indignantly and rhetorically. I didn’t notice that Flori, in her ninja-silent sneakers, had sneaked up behind me.
    â€œI can see how,” she said.

    W hat?” I demanded. I knew I sounded righteous and probably rude, but how could Flori, Linda’s mother, say such a thing? I’d never suspect Celia of a crime. Okay, I had accused Celia of drunk driving once. I was wrong, although Celiadid have an open beer can in the vehicle. I’d also believed she was responsible for artistic cactus tagging (she was), rogue wall murals (again true), and sneaking out after her curfew (not that a curfew has ever worked with her anyway). But murder? No way. Never. Certainly not an intentional, brutal murder followed by a crushing with a tamale cart. I’d never say or think such a thing about my daughter. I hoped.
    Flori raised one arthritic finger after another, ticking off perfectly valid reasons to suspect her eldest daughter. “Linda fought with Napoleon in public. She refuses to flirt and thus lives alone and has no alibi. She has motive. That horrible man, God rest his soul, was trying to destroy her business. He stole her spot on the Plaza. He planted bugs in her tamales.” She stopped to shake her finger. “Mark my words, Rita, Napoleon was behind that bug in Linda’s tamale. It’s a clear frame-up. In any case, he ended up dead under Linda’s cart. Very rude of him, although I’d expect nothing else. He called tamales peasant food. He insulted New Mexican chiles. Imagine! He compared masa to soggy sawdust and—”
    â€œOkay, okay,” I said. “Yes, those are all reasons, but other people had the same or similar motives. What about all of them? The jolly ones?” I pointed to the potential murderers taking cell phone selfies and raising toasts and flashing V for victory signs. The only good thing about their glee was that they were happily throwing down cash, enough to alleviate Addie’s worries about stingy tips for free breakfasts.
    â€œWe may as well serve ’em more cakes,” Addiesaid. She called over her shoulder, “Juan, keep flipping.”
    Juan grunted.
    A chill ran through me. “Any one of them could be the killer.”
    â€œThen they should tip us extra for Miss Linda’s trouble,” Addie said. She narrowed her long fake eyelashes and pointed to a table doling out a stack of bills. “Like them over there. They seem happy. Wonder