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

hug of heavy cologne. “I’m so very grateful for your friendship with my brother,” he said. “You and your daughter, you both meant so much to him. You mustn’t ever blame yourselves for what happened. None of us should.”
    â€œIt’s true, Rita,” Linda said, her brow rippled. “Gabe and I have been talking about dear Victor. Inner demons can get anyone, including those of us with strong faith and love.”
    â€œHe never seemed depressed to me,” I said, tentatively. Who was I to say? Me, who hadn’t finished reading all the brochures from Celia’s school counselor. Me, the mom totally okay with mopey fairy drawings. I vowed to pay more attention to everyone I loved.
    â€œHe hid his depression well.” Gabe stared into his coffee cup. “I’m afraid that he rarely confided in anyone. I wish more than anything that he’d said something last night. With the fight, I was so edgy that I took a sleeping pill and went straight to bed. I didn’t remember to check my front door, as you know.” He managed a slight smile.
    I blushed and apologized, which he waved off.
    â€œYou did the right thing,” he said, stirring a black abyss of coffee. “I do blame myself. I know I shouldn’t. But if I hadn’t let Broomer in last night and let the argument get heated, Vic might not have gotten so upset. I blame the dead too. All my brother did lately was talk about spirits. It’s not healthy.”
    Murder wasn’t healthy either. Could I bring up Flori’s and my doubts to a freshly grieving relative? Manners would say that I shouldn’t say anything. As Flori says, however, good manners won’t dig out the truth.
    I tried an indirect approach. “That Broomer guy, he scared me. Why is he so angry? Is it all about the fence line?”
    Gabe frowned. “I don’t like to say bad things about ­people, but he’s trying to steal from me and Vic. Our fence has been there for decades. The exact date is right on the property records down at the assessor’s office. Broomer, he says he owns the land nearly four feet into our backyard. Says he has a new survey.”
    Linda murmured about newcomers ruining Santa Fe. “The pushy kind, I mean,” she specified for my sake. “Not nice ­people like you, Rita.”
    â€œExactly,” Gabe said. “Broomer was pushy. And he has no respect for history, what’s already here. He got all furious last night, but I told him, ‘I’m protecting that land. Victor has his garden there. You can’t bust that up.’ We were going to get another survey. I’ll have to get at that too. Victor’s garden is more precious than ever now.”
    Linda sniffled into a napkin. Everything of Victor’s was precious now. I ached at the thought of Broomer and his bulldozer razing the pretty winding paths of pebble mosaics and cozy sitting areas watched over by Victor’s painted saints. I had a favorite bench there, one carved from huge cottonwood logs. It offered views of a busy hummingbird feeder and the burbling stream, and was the perfect place for an afternoon cup of tea.
    â€œHas Broomer seen the garden?” I asked. Surely any reasonable person wouldn’t harm something so pretty. Or maybe not so surely. All sorts of gorgeous places fell to chain stores and parking lots, even in Santa Fe with its zealous historical protection groups.
    Gabe clutched his coffee cup, his knuckles whitening. “Yeah. He’s seen it. He says he’s putting in a Zen pagoda in his garden and needs those extra few feet to get the proper dimensions.”
    My mouth fell open. I imagined Zen as peaceful and, well, Zenlike, not bulldozing and threatening.
    Linda patted Gabe’s hand, seemingly also at a loss for words.
    â€œWe’ll get through it,” Gabe said sadly, then corrected himself. “I’ll get through it.”

    A n hour later I