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

He wanted to show her the “real” New Mexico.
    My daughter was happy. Manny was not. The boy had long hair, Manny informed me sourly. He was a grade older than Celia. Moreover, he sounded like a pyromaniac and had a funny name and his parents had never married. This boy, Manny concluded, should not be taking our daughter to caves or exposing her to the unladylike craft of welding. Manny wanted to frighten Sky off. He proposed tailing him in a police vehicle or citing him for violating fire codes.
    I was curious about Celia’s new friend too, but suggested that we take the more reasonable approach of getting to know him and his parents. That’s how Celia and I ended up meeting Sky and his mother, Cass, in her soldering studio. Our kids had fun pounding metal and we had a great time talking, so much so that I eventually revealed Manny’s concerns about teenage romance. Sitting amidst torches and tanks of gas, I didn’t dare bring up the welding.
    I still remember Cass’s wink. “I don’t think Sky’s interested in girls in that way,” she’d said. “But he says he can tell Celia everything. I think your daughter’s really good for him.”
    And he was good for her. I told Manny that Cass and I would chaperone. What we were really doing was having fun too. We took the teens to fascinating archeological sites at Bandelier and Chaco Canyon. We hiked picnics up mountains and visited art studios, including the painting studio of Sky’s Native American dad. Along the way, I gained a friend and a Santa Fe insider connection unconnected to Manny.
    â€œWe should go out tonight,” Cass proposed, plucking up a stray chocolate chip from the health muffin. “I made a big sale this morning. A new client nearly bought me out of earrings and ordered a bunch of matching necklaces and bangles.”
    And I had a Mason jar full of tips, which combined wouldn’t buy one of Cass’s rings.
    â€œMy treat,” she said, encouragingly. “Drinks tonight at Small Plates? Their happy hour is super cheap and it’ll do you good to get out.”
    I loved Small Plates, a tapas bar tucked away in a courtyard off the beaten tourist path. I thought of my evening plans. Make that my nonplans, like sitting around an empty house flipping through cookbooks or mindless TV. Celia had called earlier, buoying my motherly hopes until she said that she’d stay a few more nights with her dad. I couldn’t argue with that. To tell the truth, I wasn’t eager to return to our place either.
    â€œOkay,” I told Cass, “but I’m buying the first plate of croquettes.” I couldn’t go to Small Plates without ordering the wonder that was cream, ham, and cheese, fried into crispy rounds.
    Cass beamed. “Mmmm . . . then I’m getting the artichoke dip. Oh, or maybe that fabulous grilled Catalan sausage they do.”
    â€œAnd wine,” I said, anticipating my post-­police mood. “Lots of wine.”

 
    Chapter 8
    I suspected that something was up when I returned from a late lunch delivery to the courthouse and found Addie in the kitchen. Addie’s presence itself wasn’t unusual. Flori has a soft spot for the twenty-­something singer/waitress and lets her work flexible hours. I suspect that Flori is drawn to Addie’s fanciful dreaming, namely that she’s a New Mexican double of the British songstress Adele. Addie’s real name is Adelina. Other ­people might brush that off as mere similarity. Not Addie, especially since there’s more. She also shares a birthday with the Grammy-­winning Adele, as well as a love of belting out soul songs. To further reinforce her Adeleness, she has been working to acquire a British accent and a curvy figure. I can’t decide which attempt is going worse. What I do know is that the world isn’t fair when Addie can eat mounds of New Mexican delicacies and remain a