Bread of the Dead: A Santa Fe Cafe Mystery Read Online Free PDF Page A

retraced my way back to Victor’s comforting world of eclectic art.
    â€œVictor?” My calls brought no response. He probably wanted to be alone. I understood that. I blew out a melting candle on the altar and found my coat and bag of library books. Inside the tote was a plastic sack tied with a red ribbon and filled with bizcochitos .

    T he casita was dark and chilly when I let myself in. And empty. In the old days I’d have been greeted by a cursing parrot or griping husband. I sometimes missed the bird. I thought again that I should get a pet, preferably one in the feline family. Who was I kidding? I barely had the time and money to take care of myself and Celia, let alone a furry bundle of vet bills.
    I switched on the overhead light, illuminating the main living space. Santa Fe takes its architecture and its architectural terminology very seriously. Flori, insisting that I’d never be considered a local if I didn’t talk like one, coached me in vocabulary. The round logs extending across my ceiling were vigas , not beams. Similarly, the small finger-­width branches that lined the ceiling between the beams were not lathe or thatch or ceiling twigs. These were latillas . By any name, they were some of the first things I loved about this place, after looking at many bland apartments and seedy duplexes. I also adored the beehive-­shaped kiva fireplace tucked into a corner. Adobe benches called bancos curved out from either side of the fireplace, perfect for lounging with a good book and cup of tea.
    I rarely went to the trouble of lighting a fire, except when friends came over, but after the night’s strain, I craved something warm and comforting. I placed a hickory log in the kiva and topped it with chunks of piñon for a piney perfume.
    The piñon lit easily. I watched the wood spark for a few minutes before fixing the fire guard and walking the few steps to the kitchen. There, I found something surprising.
    Mom , the note read. Studying at G’s. Back by 10??
    A note. My daughter had actually left a note. I felt absurdly buoyed. Celia is a good kid and smart. However, her teen years have strained all of us, especially since her dad and I split. Some of her rebellion is typical, like dyeing her hair black and getting a cut that looks weed-­whacked. She’s also mastered surliness, one-­word conversations, and resisting curfews and mealtimes and pretty much anything with a time requirement, although she never misses school.
    Her other rebellion is creative. She paints pictures of wide-­eyed fairy girls. The fairies are the cute, doe-­eyed kind that might populate Japanese comic books, only hers exist in desolate southwestern landscapes and are in perpetually bad moods. They’re often weeping black or red tears and can be rather disturbing, as confirmed by her school counselor who called me in a few months ago. Ms. Dean showered me in pamphlets on depression, anxiety, low self-­esteem, divorce stress, bullying, and gang membership. When I broached these possibilities to Celia, she’d laughed until she began hiccupping, and then proceeded to merrily paint anxious fairies loitering by graffiti-­tagged cacti. Since then I’ve worried less about her art.
    I poured myself a glass of wine, another indulgence for the night’s stress, and settled in by the fireplace with new cookbook finds from the library. As I flipped through pictures of Tuscan landscapes and mouthwatering pastas and almond cakes, I wondered who “G” might be. I couldn’t think of anyone with a G name, but then I didn’t know all of Celia’s high school friends.
    I sipped and flipped, vowing to stay up until ten to greet—­or track down—­my daughter. By nine-­thirty the warm embers and zinfandel had lulled me into a head-­bobbing sleep, broken occasionally by pops of firewood. By ten I’d stopped resisting and let sleep take over, my head wedged