attached in case you have to use them.â
I prayed I wouldnât have to useâor touchâthe handcuffs again. And what else had Flori been throwing in the dishwasher? I made a mental note to use the âsterilizeâ setting from now on.
âYou never know when youâll find a criminal,â Flori was saying. âRemember, be prepared. Addie, Juan, and I will hold down the café and keep our ears to the gossip front.â She thumped me on the back in an obvious âoff you goâ gesture. When I didnât go, she gave me a little shove.
I reluctantly stepped toward the back door.
Juan waved a slice of bacon.
âTa!â Addie called after me. âHave a jolly good time!â
I set off, not at all jolly. My Grinch mood, however, didnât last. The day was too pretty. Birds weresinging, tulips were blooming, and the open-air tour buses were rolling by, filled with happy visitors. Once again I thought how lucky I was to live here.
At the Plaza, I reclaimed the bench where Cass and I had sat just yesterday. Iâd planned to indulge in a muffin, but my hunger, even for chocolate, had vanished. I stared toward the bandstand and the spot outlined in caution tape, visions of Napoleonâs body flashing through my head. Swallowing hard, I forced myself to replay the scene. I recalled Napoleonâs open yet unmoving eyes, his puffed cheeks and pursed mouth. Why had he looked like that? Had he been eating? His last meal?
When people pass away on vacation or pursuing some dangerous passion like jumping out of airplanes or running in front of bulls or golfing in lightning storms, everyone says they died doing what they loved. As if this somehow made their death more palatable. Still, if Napoleon was eating his last bite, I hoped it was something he loved. In his case, that likely meant his food and his food only.
A few onlookers lingered along the outskirts of the yellow tape bordering the crime scene. Some pointed. Others snapped photos with their phones. The police had left, except for two techs. One, wearing plastic booties, leaned against a white paneled van. The second, bent nose to the ground in ostrich fashion, scoured an area enclosed by a white blobby circle. There was no body outline, but I knew thatâs what the chalk blob represented.
Lindaâs cart stood just outside the white line, festooned like a carnival float in yellow tape. I bet the tape was Mannyâs work. My ex went overboard with tape in everything from home repair to his police work.
The ostrich tech craned his head to the ground, tipping his cheek parallel to the pavers and gravel and something else. Tweezers followed, and he meticulously plucked and deposited his find in plastic evidence bags. Remembering Floriâs binoculars, I dug around the tote and extracted them from underneath the questionable cuffs. The binoculars, small and light, mostly fit in my hand. Trying to act like a casual bird-watcher, I leaned an elbow on the bench. So I wouldnât have to lie, I located a bird, a crow tearing at a paper food wrapper. The crow stepped on the edge of the paper with both feet and ripped the opposite edge with its imposing bill.
Bird-watching cover accomplished, I zoomed in on the tech and his clear plastic bag. The image jiggled each time I breathed. Giving up on discretion, I put both hands on the binoculars and aimed my magnified stare at the tech.
His gloved hands grasped something dull yellow. A clump of dirt? No . . . I ticked through more possibilities, from gum to buttons to potato chips until I could deny it no longer.
Tamale. The tech was bagging fractured chunks of steamed corn-flour dough. Nearby, I spotted the telltale corn husk thatâs traditionally wrapped around the masa dough and the savory or sweet fillings inside. I let the binoculars sink to my lap. I didnât need them to see the tech wave over his van-leaner colleague. Together they wrapped plastic around
I prayed I wouldnât have to useâor touchâthe handcuffs again. And what else had Flori been throwing in the dishwasher? I made a mental note to use the âsterilizeâ setting from now on.
âYou never know when youâll find a criminal,â Flori was saying. âRemember, be prepared. Addie, Juan, and I will hold down the café and keep our ears to the gossip front.â She thumped me on the back in an obvious âoff you goâ gesture. When I didnât go, she gave me a little shove.
I reluctantly stepped toward the back door.
Juan waved a slice of bacon.
âTa!â Addie called after me. âHave a jolly good time!â
I set off, not at all jolly. My Grinch mood, however, didnât last. The day was too pretty. Birds weresinging, tulips were blooming, and the open-air tour buses were rolling by, filled with happy visitors. Once again I thought how lucky I was to live here.
At the Plaza, I reclaimed the bench where Cass and I had sat just yesterday. Iâd planned to indulge in a muffin, but my hunger, even for chocolate, had vanished. I stared toward the bandstand and the spot outlined in caution tape, visions of Napoleonâs body flashing through my head. Swallowing hard, I forced myself to replay the scene. I recalled Napoleonâs open yet unmoving eyes, his puffed cheeks and pursed mouth. Why had he looked like that? Had he been eating? His last meal?
When people pass away on vacation or pursuing some dangerous passion like jumping out of airplanes or running in front of bulls or golfing in lightning storms, everyone says they died doing what they loved. As if this somehow made their death more palatable. Still, if Napoleon was eating his last bite, I hoped it was something he loved. In his case, that likely meant his food and his food only.
A few onlookers lingered along the outskirts of the yellow tape bordering the crime scene. Some pointed. Others snapped photos with their phones. The police had left, except for two techs. One, wearing plastic booties, leaned against a white paneled van. The second, bent nose to the ground in ostrich fashion, scoured an area enclosed by a white blobby circle. There was no body outline, but I knew thatâs what the chalk blob represented.
Lindaâs cart stood just outside the white line, festooned like a carnival float in yellow tape. I bet the tape was Mannyâs work. My ex went overboard with tape in everything from home repair to his police work.
The ostrich tech craned his head to the ground, tipping his cheek parallel to the pavers and gravel and something else. Tweezers followed, and he meticulously plucked and deposited his find in plastic evidence bags. Remembering Floriâs binoculars, I dug around the tote and extracted them from underneath the questionable cuffs. The binoculars, small and light, mostly fit in my hand. Trying to act like a casual bird-watcher, I leaned an elbow on the bench. So I wouldnât have to lie, I located a bird, a crow tearing at a paper food wrapper. The crow stepped on the edge of the paper with both feet and ripped the opposite edge with its imposing bill.
Bird-watching cover accomplished, I zoomed in on the tech and his clear plastic bag. The image jiggled each time I breathed. Giving up on discretion, I put both hands on the binoculars and aimed my magnified stare at the tech.
His gloved hands grasped something dull yellow. A clump of dirt? No . . . I ticked through more possibilities, from gum to buttons to potato chips until I could deny it no longer.
Tamale. The tech was bagging fractured chunks of steamed corn-flour dough. Nearby, I spotted the telltale corn husk thatâs traditionally wrapped around the masa dough and the savory or sweet fillings inside. I let the binoculars sink to my lap. I didnât need them to see the tech wave over his van-leaner colleague. Together they wrapped plastic around
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