Feliz Navidead Page 7

  “How utterly lovely!” she said, and I was as charmed as Addie. I told her I’d escort her to the donkey viewing. We went out the front door and around the side. Reaching the back gate, I said, “Right, here we are.” I cracked the gate and saw the other ladies and Addie gathered around Juan and Mr. Peppers, a few yards away.

  “My, how charming!” my enthusiastic companion exclaimed. “Here, dear one. Donkey, dearest, I have a muffin for you!”

  Across the yard, Mr. Peppers raised his huge ears to attention. He cocked his head, sniffed the air, and then, to my horror, barreled straight for us.

  I didn’t need to understand the exact Spanish for “Shut the gate!” as bellowed by Juan. I was already trying just that. The miniature donkey, however, had the strength of a rhino. Wheezing happily, the furry beast pushed his way through and stopped short of the sidewalk.

  “Aren’t you a feisty little one,” the lady said. She held out the muffin and velvety donkey lips inhaled it. I, meanwhile, was frantically untying my apron, hoping to lasso Peppers with the ties.

  “Hold still now,” I said soothingly. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Juan coming up behind him.

  The muffin, however, was already gone and the lady was telling Mr. Peppers that she had no more. The donkey flared his nostrils and swung his head. I followed his stare across the street, where two kids—a girl and boy, elementary school age at most—were swinging paper bags splotched in dark, oily stains. I didn’t have time to determine that the kids had something even more tempting than the forbidden fry bread. I looped my apron strings around the donkey’s thick, furry neck. He smelled the air, stomped a hoof, and charged the youngsters, taking my favorite apron with him.

  Chapter 7

  The little boy stood frozen except for his stuttering wail as Mr. Peppers barreled at him, wheezing and honking excitedly. I dashed into the street and nearly ended up smashed on the grille of a silver Audi. The car jolted to a halt inches from my knees. In the driver’s seat, Jake visibly drew a breath. I regrouped and pointed wildly to the misbehaving Mr. Peppers, who was now trotting after the fleeing boy. The girl was standing her ground, issuing orders.

  “Stop and stare!” she yelled. “Look big and scary, like you do with a mountain lion!”

  The little boy screamed louder and backed into a patch of tall ornamental grasses.

  Jake was out of the car before I could wonder whether donkeys responded to mountain-lion defense tactics. He dashed up the street, hand on his Stetson, in step with Juan, who was ripping his apron off and preparing to rope the miniature fugitive. Mr. Peppers looked over his furry shoulder and spotted them coming. In one swift move, the donkey snagged the boy’s paper sack in his teeth and trotted down the street, head high, heels kicking. Juan and Jake switched directions and ran after him.

  I stayed behind and gathered up the kids. The girl bristled at my concern.

  “We’re fine,” she said snippily. To her sniffling companion, she said, “Stop being such a baby.” I guessed he was her younger brother. They had similar silky dark hair—hers cut in a long bob with bangs, his flopping across his forehead.

  I took the boy by the hand and told him to hang on to his sister with the other hand. Having formed this little chain, I cautiously crossed the street and stood on the sidewalk by Jake’s car to watch the rodeo. A crowd had gathered, including the British ladies, who uttered oohs and ahhs and held up their cell phones to record the chaos.

  “That mean pony stole my buñuelo,” the little boy said.

  I asked him his name, but his sister instigated prisoner-of-war tactics. “No names!” She commanded. “And that’s no horse, stupid. It’s a donkey.”

  I told the boy that I was sorry about his buñuelo. A buñuelo, as Flori made them, was flat dough, deep fried, and dusted with cinnamon sugar. If you don’t witness—or can mentally block out—the frying, buñuelos seem light and harmless. That is, until you’ve gobbled too many and feel like you’ve eaten a doughy bowling ball.

  The girl reached inside her grease-spotted bag and came up with sugary fingers. She methodically licked each one clean, ignoring her stricken brother.

  I was about to tell her to be nice and share her sugar, when a bump to the back of my knees nearly sent me crumpling. Sidekick leaned against my legs. At least the chubby goat wasn’t making a break for it. I moved aside and patted his nubby-horned head. The boy tentatively touched his back.

  “Good goat,” I told Sidekick.

  “Good gracious,” Flori said, joining us. She pushed back her glasses and squinted to get a better look. “Now that is a fine sight.”

  I assumed she meant Jake, a bona fide urban cowboy, looking good as he ran down the street, trying to get ahead of the escaped donkey. Juan, whom I’d never seen hurry let alone sprint, was gaining ground on the other side.

  “One of the British ladies waved a muffin by the gate,” I told Flori. “Mr. Peppers might have stopped there, but then he spotted fry bread across the street.”

  “Buñuelos. I told you that,” the little girl corrected. “And I’m telling Daddy that your donkey scared us and ate our food. You owe us resiter . . . resto . . . restitution!” Her small face pinched into a frown.

  She was about eight, I estimated, and going on law school graduate. Her brother was probably around four and more understanding, especially since Flori was suggesting a replacement treat.

  “Restitution, you say?” Flori asked. “Well, I suppose we could make you some fresh buñuelos. Why don’t you come into the café and we’ll make them right up and call your parents.”

  “No, we’re busy,” the girl said.

  “Oh really?” Flori said, in exaggerated seriousness. “Too busy for my special chocolate buñuelos?”

  The boy seemed ready to go with the nice grandmotherly stranger offering chocolate.

  “No!” Little Miss Litigious declared, stomping her foot for emphasis. “Daddy’s a lawyer. He’ll sue for more.”

  No wonder people didn’t like lawyers, I thought, and then caught myself. I knew one lawyer I sure liked a lot. Loved? I didn’t dare think that. Still, watching Jake in action sure was—as Flori said—a fine sight.

  Flori frowned down at the girl “What is this talk of suing? Children shouldn’t say such things. How about another sweet? We have gingerbread muffins straight from Santa’s workshop.”

  “Santa’s not real and a bad influence,” the girl said haughtily. “My mother says so. And I’m not a child.”

  I didn’t know her parents. If they were sue-happy Santa haters, I feared I might not like them. All the same, I pitied them. They had their hands full, and just wait until this kid reached her teens. I shuddered for their sakes. Sidekick did too, either that or he was loosening up for more head-butting.

  “Well,” Flori said, turning up her chin. “Then I guess you won’t want any of Santa’s special hot cocoa.”

  The little boy timidly admitted that he liked hot cocoa. And presents.

  Flori added to the temptation. “Hot cocoa with whipped cream and chocolate sauce on top. I suppose we’d have to ask your mother or father first. We wouldn’t want to get sued for giving you something so sweet and delicious. What’s a number for your parents so we can call and ask?”

  The girl crossed her arms stubbornly. She was a tough one. At her age, I would have caved for hot chocolate. I’d cave now, except for the small problem of livestock on the lam. Jake and Juan were near Jake’s office and holding out their arms to herd Mr. Peppers down Jake’s driveway. I pictured his brick-paved drive, bordered by wall on one side and leading to a walled courtyard in the back. The viewing crowd had moved down the street, keeping a cautious distance.

  “I wonder if our British friends will want a full English breakfast after all this excitement?” Flori said. “Didn’t Addie say that includes beans? We have frijoles and chorizo and eggs and what else? Fried tomatoes, is that part of it? We could substitute salsa, couldn’t we? And some chiles. Everyone loves chiles.” A f
ull New Mexican fry-up was taking form.

  “Yeah,” I said, my mind wandering. I wished Mom were here to see this. Not the part about me nearly being run over. That would only reinforce her idea that I suffered from altitude-induced poor judgment. Not our visitor donkey terrorizing kids either, although I could forgive Mr. Peppers for cuteness alone, and he had been goaded. No, I wished she’d been here to see Jake in heroic action. She wouldn’t ooh and ahh. Mom didn’t express that kind of emotion, but surely she’d be impressed. Wouldn’t she?

  Applause burst out down the street. Jake and Juan emerged from the driveway. Mr. Peppers walked placidly between them with Juan’s apron serving as a makeshift halter and cape. When they reached the entrance to the temporary paddock, they paused so that the British visitors could shower Mr. Peppers in pats and praise. Mr. Peppers raised his lips in a grin and rolled his eyes in bliss when Jake rubbed his long ears. The ladies looked equally blissful. Sidekick pranced over to his friend and led the way back to the patio, as if it had never been their intention to make a break at all.

  Flori easily sold the ladies on “full Santa Fe” breakfasts. A few asked for photos with the Western wranglers, and I was recruited to take a group shot of the ladies, Jake, and a highly reluctant Juan. Jake tipped his hat to them as they left.

  “You’re going to show up on vacation slideshows in Britain,” I joked to Jake.

  He grinned in that bashful way that made me like—love?—him all the more. Then he kissed me. Beside us, the girl groaned.

  “Ugh,” she said. “Gross.”

  “And who is this?” Jake asked. He gave her his best smile.

  She was unmoved. “None of your business.”

  There was something about her that looked familiar. “You two look like someone I know,” I said.

  “No we don’t.” The little girl turned away. The little guy offered Jake his hand. Cute. Another picture-perfect moment, the cowboy and the adoring kid. Geez, all this Christmas sentiment was getting to me. Maybe I needed to take some cues from the surly girl, who was turning up her nose at me.

  “That’s it! The Crundall nose,” I declared. It wasn’t only the nose. Now that I put the pieces together, I’d heard kids playing across the street the other night. Plus, Dalia had told me that her grandkids were going to stay with her while their parents went skiing. “I’ll bet your grandmother Dalia is looking for you. We’re neighbors.”

  “We aren’t supposed to say grandmother. It sounds old,” the little boy said earnestly, earning a jab from his sister’s elbow.

  “Jig’s up,” Jake said. “Might as well tell us your names.”

  The girl shrugged, an implied whatever. “Emilie,” she said. “Spelled with an ‘ie.’ It’s French. This is Edison. You can call him Eddie, also with an ‘ie.’”

  “Eddie, Emilie with an ‘ie.’ Pleased to meet you,” Jake said seriously.

  “What are you two doing?” I asked. “You’re a long way from home. Is your grandmother—I mean, Dalia—nearby?”

  Eddie said, “We’re lost.”

  “We are not, Eddie,” Emilie snapped. “We’re walking on purpose. Dalia says we are free-range young people.”

  I caught Jake glancing at his watch. “Sorry,” he said, looking sheepish for getting caught. “Guess I shouldn’t have wished for work. I’m supposed to meet with Wyatt Cortez.”

  I drew him aside, keeping a watchful eye on the kids. “I know you can’t tell me, but if you think Wyatt’s guilty, could you give me a sign? Tug on your ear if he did it.”

  Jake pushed back his Stetson and rubbed his forehead, a confusing sign. “Rita,” he said. “I know you found the dead devil, but you don’t owe that unfortunate man anything. Didn’t you say you wanted a quiet Christmas?”

  I quickly laid out my worries for Jake. “Lorena Cortez came to see us this morning. She said someone has been sending threatening notes about Las Posadas devils. If Wyatt’s innocent, then someone might be still targeting devils. Is he innocent?”

  Usually Jake would joke that all his clients were innocent, some more than others. His seriousness worried me more than ever. “Honestly,” he said. “I don’t know. I’ve barely had a chance to speak with him. His prints were on the murder weapon, the devil’s pitchfork, but that’s easily explained since he says he found the body and tried to help. I managed to get him out on bail, with an ankle monitor and his hotel as collateral. If I find any evidence, either way, I’ll tell you, as long as I don’t have to break client confidentiality.” He kissed my forehead to a chorus of giggles and ewww sounds. “You’ll be okay with these two fugitives?”

  “No worries,” I said. “I’ll call Dalia and get them back to the right place.”

  “Auntie Judith’s!” Eddie exclaimed happily over Emilie’s sputtering protests. Perfect! I could drop in at Judith’s and casually bring up death threats and devil killers. Now all I had to do was tell Flori that I needed to skip out of work.

  As I’d guessed, Flori was delighted. So was Lorena, who offered to drive us, since Mom had taken my car. She even had a booster seat in the back that she used for her grandkids. Flori thanked Lorena for the pie and cooking help and welcomed her to the kitchen anytime. “Bring us more information,” Flori said. “Any little thing you think of could help.”

  “So you’re taking the case?” Lorena said. She began gushing thanks and offered to pay us in cash and pie.

  “We’re preliminarily looking into the case,” I said, pointedly, aiming my words more at Flori than Lorena. “Not a word to anyone, though, especially the police or my . . .” I felt silly adding, “. . . my mother.”

  Flori said it for me. “Rita’s mother is visiting. We wouldn’t want her worrying. Best to keep it a secret.” She held a finger to her lips, winking at the kids.

  “Secret,” Eddie said solemnly.

  “A secret,” Lorena agreed. “Except, can I tell Wyatt? He needs to know that I support him and don’t think he’s a killer.”

  She might not think it, but I could. Lorena dropped the kids and me off in front of Judith Crundall’s mansion. We walked across the gravel and stone expanse of Judith’s front drive and garden. Eddie kicked at pebbles.

  “So, are you having fun with your grandmother?” I asked the kids.

  Emilie said sourly, “Dalia won’t let us watch TV or use the computer. She says electromagnetic waves will fry our brains.”

  More cheerfully, Eddie reported that they’d made paper snowflakes and stayed up really late to say hello to the moon. He stopped talking abruptly when we reached the door. “Shhh,” he said. “Auntie Judith doesn’t like noise.”

  “She doesn’t like kids,” Emilie clarified.

  I hesitated to knock. When I tapped, the door swung open immediately. Barton’s assistant, Shasta, stood in the foyer, a phone to her ear, her thick-framed glasses tipped at an off angle. She put up a finger in a one-minute gesture. “Yes,” she said, “Yes, I’ll check into that. I don’t know what you heard, but I haven’t seen that item. Yes. Yes, I’ll look again.” She rolled her eyes dramatically.

  The kids and I waited, some of us more patiently than others. Emilie heaved herself on a wooden bench and groaned in boredom. I resisted the urge to peek down the magnificent hallways with their tempting features of beamed ceilings and inset cubbyholes. Eddie entertained himself by removing his shoelaces.

  A few more terse “yes” and “no” answers later, Shasta stuffed her phone into the back pocket of tight jeans. “Dalia’s been looking all over for you kids,” she said. “That’s one mystery solved. Where have you two been?”

  “We got far away and got lost and saw a donkey and a goat,” Eddie said, his laceless shoes now in his hand. One of his socks featured Spider-Man, the other turtles. “And the donkey ran at us and stole our—”

  “We weren’t lost,” Emilie snapped. “Come on, Ed, let’s go to the artifacts room and say hi to Mr. Barton.”

  “Oh, the artifacts room,” I said, seeing an opportunity to ask
Barton Hunter if anyone might want to stab him with a pitchfork. “I’d love to see that. Can I have a peek too?”

  Shasta’s drawn-out “Well . . .” followed by “we’re really busy” was an obvious prelude to a put-off. I refused to acknowledge it. I grabbed Eddie’s hand. “Sure seems like a fun place. Will you show me, Eddie?”

  Shasta retied her long red hair into a bun, which promptly fell to one side like her glasses. “Oh, why not?” she said with an exasperated sigh. “It’s chaos in there, but you won’t get chewed out for losing things that are already lost. Maybe you can find our missing friends. I think we have someone of yours too.”

  Missing friends? Someone of mine? I held back questions and my midwestern urge to apologize for barging in. Emilie led the way down a hallway lined with windows and a brick floor, suggesting that this part of the house was once a covered patio. She swung open a red vermillion door and Eddie skipped ahead, pulling me with him. My apprehension grew. Who was this friend and why was he or she missing? Maybe I wasn’t the right person to help look, given my penchant for finding dead people. I steeled myself, prepared for anything.

  I stepped inside and stopped short. My mother raised her eyes from a magnifying glass, straightened, and shot me a perplexed frown. “Rita, what are you doing here?”

  I could ask her the very same thing.

  Chapter 8

  “Well!” Mom said indignantly, when I did ask her that very question. “I couldn’t sit idly around the house. Celia’s still asleep and I already organized your spice rack and I will say, your sock drawer is a mess, but I left it alone and started on your front porch. Lots of dust and pollen out there. In the spring, you should give it a good scrubbing, Rita.”

  I pushed aside worries of the “organized” spices I’d have to disorganize when Mom left. “I meant, this is great, Mom. I’m glad you got out. I was just surprised to see you. Pleasantly surprised. How did you get here?”