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

the heat while hanging her arm out the window, a questionable driving skill she learned from her dad. I hoped that wasting heat was the worst she was doing.
    Meanwhile, a tote bag of library books dug into my shoulder as a bag filled with Flori’s breads bumped against my knee. I felt like a weary pack mule. But wasn’t walking the best exercise? And who could complain about a commute along Canyon Road, Santa Fe’s renowned art district? I walked this way regularly, yet couldn’t resist glancing in the brightly lit galleries, admiring panoramic paintings and fanciful figurines. I stopped by a giant statue of a horse head to readjust the tote bag. The statue, bronze turned to minty patina, stood as tall as an upturned van, with flaring nostrils and wild eyes. A nearby plaque named it as Helicon, cast from the mold for the world’s largest equestrian bronze. Impressive, for sure, but for me the horse marked the best leg of my commute, the part that feels like an insider’s secret.
    Beyond the colossal horse, the galleries peter out, as do the tourists, few of whom make it as far as my address on Upper Canyon. It’s too bad, as they would surely enjoy the picturesque landscape as much as I do. The narrow road follows a gentle creek valley and its ribbon of cottonwoods and willows. Silvery sage, flowering cactuses, and rabbitbrush, which blooms in golden puffs in autumn, are more common than the manicured lawns of my midwestern youth. Even more entrancing is the architecture. I still marvel at the high adobe walls with their bulging buttresses and massive gates trimmed in metalwork and flickering gas lamps. I also adore the peekaboo views of the homes behind the walls, their windows deep set in thick adobe. Some, like my new home base, started out as simple farmhouses and remain as modest family compounds. Others have become luxury estates. I’ve spotted my neighbors’ houses in design magazines, and realtors lucky enough to snag a listing in the area gush adjectives such as “extraordinary,” “incomparable,” and “priceless,” all while assigning million-­dollar-­plus price tags.
    And now this was my address . I still pinched myself, hardly believing my good fortune. Best of all, the desirable location came with a wonderful landlord, Victor. As I turned the final bend, I saw him waving to me from our mailboxes. I raised the bag of bread to show that I’d brought treats.
    â€œMmm . . .” he said when I reached the driveway. “The dead must be talking to me because I sensed Flori’s pan de muerto before I saw you.”
    I handed him the bag and he stuck his face in it, making more mmm and ahhh sounds. When he emerged, purple sugar smudged the tip of his big nose, complementing the turquoise paint above his ear and dotting his apron. Although supposedly retired now that he’s sixty-­eight, Victor spends many hours running art workshops at his nonprofit for at-­risk kids. In his spare time he creates his own art, primitive paintings of saints done on reclaimed wood and metal. Saint art is more common than horse sculptures in Santa Fe. In other words, there’s a whole lot of it. Victor’s work, however, stands out and is sought by collectors both locally and internationally. In fact, Flori heard from one of her sources—­a keen-­eared and loose-­lipped museum docent—­that Victor’s saints will star in the Christmas exhibit at Santa Fe’s Museum of International Folk Art. When I offered congratulations, though, Victor had shrugged them off. He’s as humble as a teddy bear and resembles one too, with big ears, dark button eyes, and a round belly to boot.
    I walked down the gravel driveway with Victor, charmed, as always, by the setting. The spacious gardens resemble a park more than a yard. Heirloom apple trees, planted by Victor’s grandfather, still droop with ruby-­red fruit in summer.