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he’s not worth getting upset over,” I said.
    Linda wrenched her arm from me and for a moment I was afraid she would strike out again.
    â€œLook at her,” Napoleon said, giddy in Linda’s agony. “The hysterical woman who would feed you roaches.”
    All eyes turned to Linda. Dear, kind Linda who volunteered at the soup kitchen and rescued stray wolves and maintained—I knew—a spotless kitchen. She wobbled and then ran down the street to her truck. The crowd gawked.
    Napoleon sneered as he strode past me and Cass. “Tell your friend it’s over,” he said.
    â€œIt’s not over,” I sputtered. Not if I could help it .

Chapter 3
    I understand the agony of embarrassment. I don’t mean minor mortifications either, like stomping on a certain handsome lawyer’s polished cowboy boots or spilling soup on his pants. No, those kinds of flubs can be brushed—or wiped—off. The worst embarrassment is the social kind. Forgetting a person whom you once had over for dinner, for instance. Or blurting out words in anger. Or throwing a Bloody Mary at your philandering husband in a dive bar in downtown Santa Fe. I’ve done all of those. The drink-throwing incident, I blame on extreme stress. That and binge-watching Sex and the City, although I didn’t end up sipping cosmos with my chic, confident girlfriends. Seconds after vodka-spiked tomato juice and a stalk of celery struck Manny’s face, I was drowning in humiliation. I still avoid the bar where it happened. Not just the bar, the entire street.
    Try explaining such chagrin to an octogenarian who says she’s old enough to do as she pleases and practices the world’s deadliest martial art.
    â€œLinda’s embarrassed,” I said, once again. “I’m sure that’s why she’s lying low.”
    â€œLinda should have kicked him in the shin or elsewhere,” Flori grumbled, hacking at a pile of tomatillos. The waxy green fruits, tart and destined for salsa, turned to pulp under her knife. They weren’t the only victims of Flori’s mood. Tomatoes, peppers, and several mangos had already turned to mince as Flori took out her anger on produce.
    â€œShe would have felt worse,” I said. “Linda felt awful when she simply said she hated Napoleon. Can you imagine if she kicked him?”
    From Flori’s wicked grin, it seemed she was imagining the joy of kicking rather than its consequences. “A woman has a right to defend her honor,” she said, bashing a head of garlic with a cleaver. The garlic collapsed into cloves that Flori smashed again to remove their papery wrappings. “I’m not saying that Linda should do anything extreme, of course,” she added, rather primly.
    I nodded, keeping one ear pressed to my cell phone. The ringing on the other end stopped and Linda’s voice mail kicked in, inviting me to leave a message and have a wonderful day. I pressed End Call. I’d already left Linda two messages.
    â€œMaybe she’s out for a walk or taking a nap,” I said, as much to reassure myself as Flori. “We should make her a care pack. Ice cream or some muffins.”
    Flori made a harrumph sound. “Linda doesn’t eat ice cream. She’s worried it’ll give her tooth decay. Says it makes her teeth ache too. That child has always been sensitive. Let me call her. She has to answer for her mother.”
    I took over the tomatillo salsa preparation, mixing in minced onion, garlic, and cilantro. The tangy salsa paired perfectly with our steak and eggs breakfast plate and was always popular with salty corn tortilla chips. My mouth watered, and I reached for a chip. Someone had to taste-test.
    Flori dialed from her rotary phone at the front desk. While the dial turned, she fussed with the mariachi mannequins, dusting them and their instruments with a napkin.
    â€œLinda!” Flori exclaimed. She abandoned her cleaning,