Free Cinco de Mayhem by Ann Myers

the wheels of Linda’s cart. I watched as the men lowered a ramp and shoved the yellow cart up and into the van.
    The van doors banged shut and indignation rose like bile in my stomach. Of course, I knew the indignation was misplaced. The techs had to take Linda’s cart. Its wheels had rolled over a murder victim. But the cart hadn’t moved on its own. I recalled helping Linda once. Even loaded with tamales, cooking utensils, hot sauces, warming trays, a cooler, and a chubby propane tank, the cart moved easily with its four thick wheels and lightweight hitch. Linda was no buff, bodybuilder type like Detective Bunny. If she or I could move it, practically anyone could, and the cart hadn’t been secured after Linda abandoned it following her run-in with Napoleon and the food inspector.
    I wondered about the inspector. Had Napoleon called him to the Plaza as soon as he saw Linda return? And what about the lanky redheaded guy who found the buggy tamale? The timing was too convenient for me to believe in coincidence. I dug out the notepad and started a list. I needed to talk to the inspector and the bug finder.
    I looked up and saw someone else I should question. Gathering my tote bag, I headed across the Plaza to interrogate my first potential murderer.

Chapter 7
    I wasn’t about to whip out the pink handcuffs and pepper spray for my encounter with Don Busco. First, I’d never overpower him, even with Flori’s Taser, which I prayed she hadn’t packed in with the muffins. Don stood well over six feet, with a few inches added by a black felt Stetson topped with a feather. Second, I’d feel too guilty. Don beamed at me, little knowing that I suspected him of violent crime.
    â€œRita!” he said jovially, coming out from behind his ketchup-red hot dog cart. When I was within hugging reach, he threw an arm over my shoulder, enveloping me in the scent of campfire smoke. Since Don steamed his hot dogs, I wasn’t sure how he managed the campfire perfume, but it went perfectly with his cowboy-cook look.
    â€œGreat to see you!” he said from high above my shoulders. “What brings you out to the Plaza on such a fine day? Hankering for a hot dog?”
    Suspecting nice people like you of murder . I smiled at Don and assured myself that he had to make the list, if only to be crossed off. Don used to tend bar at Napoleon’s chic bistro, OhLaLa. Cass and I went occasionally to enjoy Don’s innovative cocktails and tales of his time in the local film industry. New Mexican landscapes, Don informed us, have appeared in not only Westerns, but also Middle Eastern action films, vampire flicks, and even Indiana Jones and Independence Day . I’d also learned to keep my eye out for famous part-time New Mexico residents including Robert Redford, Gene Hackman, Julia Roberts, and Shirley MacLaine. Don clearly loved film work, but bartending offered steadier pay and he had a talent for adding southwestern flair to cocktail classics.
    Cass and I later speculated that the flair might have gotten him fired. No matter how tasty and popular the drinks, Napoleon wouldn’t have liked pickled chiles in his French martinis or a kir royale composed of champagne sweetened with pink prickly pear syrup.
    The “official” reason for Don’s firing, however, didn’t involve cocktail innovation or tall tales. Napoleon sent an e-mail to elite restaurant owners warning that Don had palmed tips and whole tabs and bottles. The news swept through the food community. At the time, I wondered why Don didn’t sue Napoleon for libel. Unless the accusation was true, in which case why didn’t Napoleon go to the police? True or not, Napoleon’s bad-mouthing swirled like a desert dust devil, essentially blacklisting Don from restaurant work around town. If I were Don and innocent, I’d bebitter. Bitter enough to kill, though? If so, why wait until now, nearly a year after the fact?
    Don