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Overview
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781603813006 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Camel Press |
| Publication date: | 01/01/2016 |
| Series: | Jemimah Hodge Mystery , #4 |
| Pages: | 324 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.00(w) x 8.00(h) x 0.81(d) |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
It was five thirty on a cool September day in Santa Fe. The last of the seasonal wildflowers undulated through the landscape in waves of color.
The annual Santa Fe Fiesta was in full swing on the downtown Plaza, and vendors worked throughout the day to set up food booths beneath the shade of the massive elm trees. The smell of green chiles roasting on makeshift grills was propelled through the air by a gentle breeze. Hundreds of burger bun bags sat in stacks behind the booths, alongside cases of ketchup, mustard, and pickles. The hirelings hurriedly sliced away at succulent white onions, which filled their eyes with tears as they chopped. It would be dark in a few hours and the crowds would soon be closing in for the first sales of the weekend.
Santa Fe County Sheriff's Detective Rick Romero left the Cerrillos substation and turned down Highway 14 in the direction of Santa Fe. He had just picked up his girlfriend, Dr. Jemimah Hodge, at her ranchette at the base of the Ortiz Mountains a few miles north of Madrid. They were headed to Fort Marcy, a historic site about a mile north of Santa Fe Plaza. The annual burning of Zozobra was scheduled to commence at sundown, a fitting time for thirty thousand residents and tourists to gather and witness his demise. Zozobra, aka Old Man Gloom, was a fifty-some foot giant marionette constructed by Fiesta volunteers from sticks, glue, chicken wire, and cloth. Its body was crammed full with over a ton of shredded paper, much of which consisted of old police reports, home mortgages, bills, Dear John letters, divorce decrees, and a multitude of other gloomy subjects. Onlookers gathered for the opportunity to send their own troubles up in smoke by writing them on slips of paper and offering them up to the soon- to-be-ashes effigy.
This would be the second year the couple attended the event. Detective Romero parked his vehicle in front of the Burrito Company on Washington Avenue in a space he scored when a delivery truck moved forward. As they began their walk, they soon merged with a large, exuberant crowd moving steadily toward the bright pink Masonic Temple building up ahead, where the road would narrow and lead them to Fort Marcy Park. It was a steep climb for many, but City officials had decided some years earlier that allowing traffic within three miles of Fort Marcy could be dangerous. It had therefore become a foot-traffic-only event, much to the chagrin of out-of-shape residents who struggled to make the climb.
Romero spread a blanket out on a grassy clump where the slope provided a good view. Jemimah sat cross-legged, wrapping part of the blanket around her.
She shivered. "Should have brought that sweater, but didn't think it was going to be this cool," she said.
He reached into the backpack and pulled out a windbreaker. "This should help," he said, and wrapped it around her shoulders.
Jemimah leaned against him and smiled. "You must have been a Boy Scout ... always prepared," she said.
He chuckled. "Nah, I've just frozen my butt off more times than I can remember pursuing investigations after sundown."
They snuggled closer as the celebration commenced, watching for more than an hour as fire dancers with flaming torches pranced around the massive figure, working their way toward lighting the bonfires strategically placed at its base. At first the crowd was subdued. Then, one by one, each of the dancers hurled a torch, igniting the fires and causing Zozobra to awkwardly flail its elongated puppet arms and groan loudly in dismay. Onlookers began a thunderous chant and cheered in tandem, Burn him! Burn him! Burn him! A roar went up as a fireworks display spewed into the sky from the burning figure. As the giant gloom-monger burned down into cinders, the crowd began to dissipate. The satisfied onlookers gathered their belongings and made their way toward the exit.
As they strolled toward the center of town, the couple walked past the Palace of the Governors and the kiosks in the park, where artists would hawk their wares first thing in the morning. Romero squeezed Jemimah's hand. "Hungry?"
She grinned. "Kind of. What do you have in mind? I'm pretty much up for anything as long as it has green chile on it, in it or over it."
He motioned toward the hotel whose shadow loomed over the next block. "The bar at the La Fonda has a fiesta buffet until midnight. I imagine there's an abundance of smother-ready chile," he said.
Jemimah rubbed her stomach. "Sounds yummy to me."
Five minutes later they stopped at their vehicle and deposited the blanket and backpack in the trunk. "We can eat, have a few drinks, and enjoy the music," Romero said, directing her across the cobblestone street toward the entrance of the hotel.
She took his hand as they walked into the lobby. Music blared through the speakers around the hotel.
"The place is really jumping," Jemimah said. "Either everyone from Zozobra followed us in or we followed them."
Romero laughed. "Looks that way, doesn't it?"
They strolled past the La Plazuela Restaurant south of the entrance. Jemimah gazed at the hundreds of painted windowpanes surrounding the enclosure, their colorful scenes depicting birds, animals, and flowers. The lounge next door was an open concept design, bordered only by a small half-wall that also served as a banco for extra seating. From floor to ceiling, the walls were covered with azulehos — hand-painted Mexican tiles. He guided her to the center of the lounge where he spotted the last remaining table. "Looks like we lucked out," he said. "This one's vacant."
He pulled out a chair for Jemimah and edged the other closer to her and the table. He reached over and stroked her hair, and their eyes met. Neither wanted the evening to end.
The mariachi band returned from their break and stepped up on the stage. Excited chatter filled the room. The crowd's energy seemed to spur the musicians on.
Romero cupped his ear over hers. "I love this music," he said.
She nodded. "Me, too."
He grabbed her hand. "Come on, let's dance."
She laughed. "Hey, I can do a Texas two-step. I'm not sure I can keep up with a mariachi polka."
He skillfully spun her around the dance floor.
"Not much difference between country and Tex-Mex," he said.
The audience applauded, and as the music came to a halt, they were both out of breath. His hand grasping her elbow, he guided her back to the table. The cocktail waitress brought their drinks and pointed them to the buffet, where they could partake of an abundance of Mexican food when they were ready.
Jemimah took a sip of her drink. "Mmm. They do make a great margarita."
"Yeah, great girlie drinks," Romero teased and took a swallow of his beer.
Onlookers clapped, trumpets blared, and guitars twanged. A roar went up from the audience as a lone mariachi took center stage and belted out a popular Mexican song. The stage itself was small, one third the size of the dance floor. Because the lounge opened into the lobby, hotel guests stood in the hallway, swaying to the music.
Jemimah was fascinated by the crowd's reaction, particularly the women. She turned to Romero. "Who is this guy? He seems to be really popular."
Romero leaned toward her. "His name is Eduardo Sanchez. A couple of us guys on the force went to high school with him."
They walked over to the buffet and filled their plates with steaming-hot Mexican food.
At ten o'clock, the band took a break. Sanchez walked over to greet Romero.
"Hey, Buddy, long time no see. Still fighting crime and keeping the city's neighborhoods safe?"
Romero stood, shook his hand, and introduced Jemimah. For the next five minutes Sanchez focused his attention on her. Romero merely smiled. When the entertainer returned to his equipment, she leaned over toward Romero and said, "He does think he's something special, doesn't he?"
"Yes," Romero said, "he's quite a ladies' man and famous in his own mind. Always been that way, ever since I can remember." He winked at her. "Looks like he's a little smitten with you."
She grinned and fluffed her hair. "Oh, yes. I do seem to have that effect on men."
Romero pulled her up from her seat, put his arm around her shoulder, and gave it a squeeze. "Yeah, I'll vouch for that." He pointed toward the exit. "Let's get out of here. I need to experience that effect you have on men."
"My place or yours?"
"My brother's still camping out at my place, so let's do yours, sweetie," he said, planting a kiss on her lips.
Following their passionate lovemaking, the couple settled into each other's arms, where sleep came easily.
CHAPTER 2Guadalajara, Jalisco, Mexico
A month later, November 1
Official Dia de los Muertos
Deeply engrossed in her work since early morning, Carmen de la Torre sat at the Singer sewing machine in the converted bedroom of her residence on La Paz Street. Every available inch of space in the room was stacked with reams of material for jackets and trousers. A professional seamstress for more than twenty years, she'd learned the craft by watching her mother toil fifteen hours a day on outfits for the Americanos ricos. The income she generated was less than a thousand pesos per month, but Carmen's mother kept the pantry stocked from the fruits of her labors.
Decades later, it was Carmen who had become famous, if indeed one could become famous as a seamstress. Nonetheless, she was sought out by mariachi bands throughout Mexico, the southwestern United States, and California. Carmen was the Mexican version of Ann Taylor.
In anticipation of the upcoming Day of the Dead celebration, Carmen's ten-year-old daughter, Dulce, sat pensively at the shrine in the adjoining room. She had followed her mother's instructions to the letter and lit every candle on the shrine. A sweet-smelling cloud of copal incense hung in the air. Dozens of decorated sugar skulls and crepe-paper flowers in boxes waited to be placed on the altar. Dulce's task was to remove the cellophane wrapping and wait for further instructions from her mother.
Carmen took a minute to check on Dulce. "Mi hija, be careful not to burn yourself, and make sure you put the matches where your brother can't reach them."
"Sí, Mama, I already lit all the candles. I'm just waiting for you to hurry up so we can get dressed for the procession," Dulce said, her voice impatient.
Carmen stroked her daughter's head. "Ah, mi querida, I'm afraid I might have to ask Tia Loyda to take you. I'll catch up with you two when I'm done here. I'm expecting a man from Nuevo Mexico to stop by for his outfit. He's in a big hurry and wants to wear it for a concert next weekend." She was excited that her handiwork would be seen by everyone attending the concert.
Dulce stomped her feet in mock indignation. "Aieee, we never get anywhere on time."
"I'm sorry, Dulce. There's nothing I can do about it. So run over to Tia Loyda's and see if they've left yet."
Before her mother could formulate another sentence, Dulce turned and rushed out the door. It was no coincidence her name meant the sweets of the sweet. She knew her Auntie Loyda, who had no children of her own, would lavish her with every available sweet confection.
Carmen had worked feverishly for the past three days adding the final touches to the charro suit ordered by Eduardo Sanchez, a mariachi musician from Santa Fe. All that remained was to sew on sterling silver botonaduras. Sanchez was one of the few mariachis willing to pay extra for button adornments specially designed by a platero in the village.
Carmen and Sanchez had met in the spring of the previous year when he placed an order for a suit and asked her to recommend a zapatero to fashion a pair of boots to match the new outfit.
He was tall and handsome, and his deep hazel eyes sparkled with mischief. She assumed he was a good musician, as he had a booming melodious voice. When he showed her some photos of his group, she wondered if he was married, but didn't want to appear forward. Carmen didn't know then how her life would change because of her association with this attractive musician.
CHAPTER 3Carlos Romero had been living in the spare bedroom of his brother Rick's house. The detective took Carlos in following his release from prison the previous year after he completed an eighteen-month sentence for possession of marijuana. Although he denied the bulk of the charges, Carlos was certain someone had set him up for the collar to get back at his brother. No matter. It was about time he moved into his own place. Rick seemed to be ragging on him more than usual about picking up after himself. Carlos had signed a lease on a condo on the east side of the city and was almost finished moving. He knew his brother would be happy about that.
It was late Friday afternoon when he stepped out of the shower and toweled himself off. At five feet eleven, he wasn't quite a mirror image of his brother. His eyes were a deeper green, and his straight hair was a darker shade of brownish black. Of the two siblings, he fit more in the category of eye candy than Rick, who was considered handsome in a rugged kind of way. He moved closer to the mirror, leaned forward and plucked a lone gray hair from his head. "Too young for that," he said out loud, turning his head in all directions to make sure there weren't any others. His cellphone vibrated on the dresser. It was Rick.
"Hey, Brother. Long time no hear," he said.
"I've been busy, Carlos, and you're never up by the time I leave and always gone by the time I get home," Romero said. "I was thinking you might want to catch something to eat, maybe have a few beers?"
"Ah, sorry. My immediate plan is to head to Albuquerque and check out the club action. Heard they opened a new place down on Central Avenue. You want to come along?"
"Not hardly. I gave up the party scene a long time ago. A bit too wild for my liking," Romero said.
"I knew that, Rick. Just wanted to see if you'd bite," he said. "Never know what sweet little dish is going to be ready to pull my heart strings."
"Seems to me it's about time you settle down and stick to one woman instead of playing the field," Romero said.
"Yeah, sure, Rick. Like you have, Mister Afraid of Commitment."
"Hey, I am in a committed relationship, Carlos," he said.
"Yeah, me too. Committed to sampling all the delicacies out there. Besides, that last involvement I had left a sour taste in my mouth. She couldn't pull herself away from constant gaming and texting on her iPhone long enough to focus on our relationship." Carlos didn't see the need to convince his brother of the fun he had nightclubbing. Albuquerque was the nearest place a guy could party that offered variety. The city was almost ten times the size of Santa Fe. Rows of busy nightclubs lined Central Avenue — the historic Route 66, which wound its way through the center of town. More importantly, it was a mere sixty minutes from his front door.
"Okay, Carlos. So take it easy."
Putting down the phone, Carlos walked into the bedroom and smiled at himself in the full-length mirror on the closet door. He reached for his keys and headed out the door.
Traffic was heavy for the weekend, and by the time he reached the off- ramp on Interstate 25 to the Central Avenue exit, he found that the Albuquerque Police Department had already barricaded off an eight-block section of the popular downtown area. Officers on horseback patrolled the streets with eyes peeled for any sign of a disturbance. Dubbed the Party Patrol, the task force was designed to keep revelers from raising too much hell on city streets. With a criminal record under his belt, Carlos was ever careful to keep his hot temper under wraps, particularly around saddle-bound law enforcement. His personal goal for the evening wasn't so much to raise hell as it was to just get laid.
He rolled into the municipal parking lot, paid the ten dollar fee, alarmed his car, and walked down Central Avenue. The area buzzed with activity. The Friday night art walk was in full swing, with galleries featuring live bands filled to capacity. At the end of a two-block walk, he found himself in front of Sprig, a trendy club smack dab in the middle of downtown. The line at the door stretched for half a block. A pair of hefty bouncers ushered patrons in one at a time, while deftly weeding out any shabbily dressed undesirables. Carlos noticed that most of those allowed in line were dressed to impress. He was surrounded by a gaggle of expensively attired twenty-somethings — shapely, well-tanned women in short cocktail skirts and Aldo heels. Their male counterparts were dressed in Ed Hardy or Affliction shirts, clean shaven with spiked hair and bulging biceps. Although he was dressed in an expensive white Canali shirt, Diesel jeans, and black Chuck Taylors, Carlos felt a little out of place. At least he was smooth-shaven like the rest of the guys in line and his clothes didn't come from a cheap outlet store.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "The Mariachi Murder"
by .
Copyright © 2016 Marie Romero Cash.
Excerpted by permission of Coffeetown Enterprises, Inc.
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