Read Online Bread of the Dead: A Santa Fe Cafe Mystery by Ann Myers - Free Book Online

FOUND DEAD.
    Tears welled in my eyes. To hold them in, I raised my face to the ceiling, pretending to study the multicolored skeleton parts and flowers hanging from the beams. Flori had instructed Juan, our griddle master, to arrange each paper tibia and severed hand ornament just so. I’d insisted on the flowers because, despite what Flori says, not everyone loves so much bone décor.
    Jake must have noticed because he turned over the paper, hiding the picture. “I’m sorry, Rita. Victor was truly a good man. One of the best. They say here that the police aren’t looking for suspects.”
    I nodded, trying to hold my emotions together. I did not want to start weeping in front of Jake and the entire breakfast crowd. “Yeah,” I managed. “It looks like suicide.” I saw no use in telling him that Flori and I felt otherwise. Her sixth sense and my feelings would not impress a lawyer. Or the police. Manny would automatically disagree. I hoped that Bunny would listen.
    Jake pierced his egg, and golden yolk cascaded over the brick red pork. My stomach rumbled, reminding me that I hadn’t eaten yet. Would it be breaking my moratorium to join Jake and pig out on comforting chiles rellenos? What if I put a cheesy chile and an egg on a mound of crispy hash browns and topped them all with green chile sauce? I decided that neither the moratorium nor the breakfast crowd—­not to mention my dieting aspirations—­would allow this fantasy.
    â€œSuicide sure doesn’t seem like Victor,” Jake said, composing a perfect bite of pork, potato, and egg. “I had a meeting set up with him. He was so adamant that I rearranged my schedule to fit him in.”
    â€œAha! More evidence of murder! You’re one hot tipper, Jake Strong. Isn’t that right, Rita?”
    This exclamation, followed by the smack on my right shoulder blade, startled any lingering tears and fantasies away. Luckily, I wasn’t holding anything spillable.
    â€œAck! Flori! What are you doing sneaking up on me like that?”
    My diminutive boss stood behind me, a coffeepot in one hand, a canister of whipped cream in the other.
    â€œWell someone had to come do the refills, what with you out batting your eyes at handsome lawyers. I sprayed cream all over that tourist woman’s waffles and her coffee while I was at it. Can’t tell what they are now. Good thing I keep this stuff on hand for emergencies. Good thing I came moseying by here too.” She brandished the cream can, looking ready to unload it onto anyone else who might complain. Jake leaned away from us both.
    â€œYeah,” I said, sarcasm creeping into my voice. “Good thing.”
    If Flori noticed the sarcasm or that she nearly startled me out of my socks, she ignored it. Investigating, she always says, demands rule-­breaking for the greater good. She’s also a firm believer in the persuasive powers of sugary praise and food.
    She poured Jake more coffee along with a heaping helping of flattery. “You’re an astute man, Mr. Strong, and you smell good enough to put on the dessert menu. Now, tell us what you think Victor wanted to talk about.”
    Jake knows Flori well enough to know her tricks. He leisurely chewed some carne adovada and shrugged in an exaggerated gesture of helplessness. She waited him out, a trick she learned from an old friend in law enforcement, the same person who taught her to operate a Taser and tail suspects.
    â€œSorry, can’t tell you,” Jake protested in between bites. “Attorney-­client privilege.”
    â€œWas he an actual client yet?” I asked. My legal knowledge doesn’t extend far beyond Law and Order , although I did learn a few things about lawyers and their ways during my unpleasant divorce proceedings.
    Jake’s response was cautious. “He wanted to become a client . . .”
    â€œHa!” Flori raised her whipped cream can