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

finally sat down for breakfast. “I need a drink,” I groaned, slumping before remembering that Flori’s chairs have been handcrafted to punish poor posture. The wooden swallows carved into the seat back pecked me in the neck. I reluctantly sat up straight and settled for a sip of tepid coffee.
    My best friend Cass sat across from me and smiled sympathetically. “My Swedish grandmother always carried a flask of vodka. Medication, she called it. She liked a well-­medicated coffee.”
    â€œI could use that kind of medication,” I said. After a shot of vodka, though, I’d be out cold. As it was, I was setting myself up for a food coma. It was 9:45 and I could have taken down the entire breakfast menu. In lieu of total gluttony, I’d made myself a plate of chiles rellenos with sides of beans and rice. It wasn’t exactly a light snack but it wasn’t the worst I could do. I’d forgone topping it with an egg or guacamole or steak and waffles.
    Cass retied her long platinum blond hair back in a ponytail, looping the band around to approximate a bun. The bun came out looking elegant. So did Cass, despite her workday outfit of faded jeans and a slightly singed wool sweater.
    â€œI’m glad you could sit for a bit,” she said. “What a horrible thing. I miss Victor already. He was supposed to have the booth next to mine at the Christmas market.” She shook her head sadly.
    Outside the window, gray clouds rolled in from the north. Cottonwood leaves, big as brown paper lunch sacks, danced with mini dust devils in the street. Customers had reported that a storm was broiling and might powder Mount Baldy in snow by evening. Usually, I thrill at the first snow, taking it as an excuse to bake cookies and roast pretty much anything. Today, my mood was as dark as the sky.
    Cass sipped hot chai and nibbled a chocolate muffin studded with chocolate chips. Like me, she buys into Flori’s claim that the sweet chocolate treat is a health food because it’s made with olive oil.
    â€œYou should come over to the shop and we can fire off some bad feelings,” she offered.
    She meant the firing part literally. Cass is a silversmith with a studio near the Plaza. I’m envious of her skill, although a nervous, jumpy mess around her tools. Recently she’s been teaching me to solder using the one fiery device I can handle: a common kitchen crème brûlée torch. I’ve been reciprocating, showing her how to turn sugar into glassy caramel.
    â€œI’d love to,” I said, after savoring a gooey bite of pepper, “but I have to help with lunch and then go give a statement to Detective Bunny. I hope it’s her, not Manny.”
    â€œI could call in a fake alarm at a sleazy bar,” Cass offered. “I bet he’d take that call.”
    I bet he would too. “He’s probably already there,” I said. “No, scratch that. He’s not on shift yet. Maybe he’s lounging around at home with his new girlfriend.” I told her about my surprise meeting with Ariel.
    â€œPoor girl,” Cass said. “I almost feel sorry for her.” Cass can be counted on to take the anti-­Manny side in any situation, although as a supportive friend, she held off telling me so until I announced my divorce intentions. She always credits Manny with one good thing, though. Inadvertently, he was the reason she and I met.
    It was a few months after Manny, Celia, and I moved to Santa Fe. I’d worried about Celia adjusting to not only high school, but also a school in a new place with all new ­people. Would she fall in with a bad crowd? Feel isolated or out of her element? Nope. Celia quickly found friends in the art crowd, including a boy named Sky whom she talked about a lot. Sky knew how to weld, Celia reported with awe. He made steel statues and won art competitions and wanted to take her to Bandelier to see cliff dwellings and petroglyphs.