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

Tall grasses wave against bristly cactuses, and stone pathways lead to hidden benches and peaceful resting spots. My favorite path meanders downhill to a pretty patch of forest and the burbling stream, which is actually the grandly named Santa Fe River.
    Victor’s family home blends into its natural surroundings. The sprawling, earth-­hued adobe, built over multiple generations, is now occupied by Victor and his younger brother Gabriel. The bachelor brothers value their privacy and claim separate wings and entrances. Celia and I rent the adobe cottage on Victor’s side, nestled at the top of the back garden. In other parts of the country our place might be called the mother-­in-­law house. Here, it’s a casita, or “little house.”
    By urban apartment standards it’s not that small, although tell that to my sixteen-­year-­old daughter. If Celia’s home to complain about casita claustrophobia, that is. Lately, her after-­school activities and study sessions were lasting late into the night. Curfew threats and cajoling on my part hadn’t done any good, especially with her dad taking her side.
    As I expected, the lone car in the driveway was Victor’s vintage VW Beetle, painted shiny goldenrod yellow with red Zia sun symbols on the roof and mirrors. If Celia had come home, she was already gone. At best, she’d have written a note. As usual, I’d probably end up leaving unanswered messages on her phone and waiting up. I sighed.
    â€œCheer up,” Victor said, guessing my mood. “No one should be sad around this time. We want the departed to come back and visit. We have to remind them there’s good in this world. Come on in and I’ll show you my altar.”
    I readily accepted. Visiting Victor is always a treat. He rivals Flori in his culinary skills and always has goodies on hand. Plus, his house is filled with amazing art. In addition to his own creations, he collects a wide range of the wacky and wonderful, like landscapes created from tin scraps and crosses decorated in straw inlay, as fine and lustrous as gold filigree.
    A display I’d never seen before caught my attention. Clay figures, rustic in form but raw in their emotions, mourned in front of an open casket. They were joined by wooden angels and backed by a papier-­mâché skeleton holding a sugar skull.
    I shivered, despite myself. “So many skeletons . . .”
    Victor turned and grinned. “Yeah. We get into the true holiday spirit around here. Those clay figures, they’re from Oaxaca, made by a family of famous female potters. They’re known for their wake and funeral scenes.”
    I told him they were lovely. They were, although they tugged at my emotions a whole lot more than the fake tombstones and cartoon vampires of Halloween décor.
    â€œI think they’re lovely too,” Victor said fondly. He rearranged a kneeling mourner and smiled at me. “And wait until Christmas. I have a whole manger scene by the same potters.”
    Surely Christmas came with fewer bones. Carefully maneuvering my bags past art and a few more skeletons, I followed him into the main living room. “Wow,” was all I could say. Even in this house of wonders, the shrine stood out.
    â€œYep,” Victor said, sounding a bit embarrassed. “Pretty impressive, eh? This altar has been in our family for generations. I keep the main structure in a back room and bring it out to decorate every year.”
    A three-­tiered stairlike structure sat atop a wooden table. On the top tier, an ornate silver cross gleamed, flanked by statues of the Virgin Mary and various saints. The other tiers held photographs. Most were formal portraits in black and white and all were surrounded by an array of foods, flowers, candles, and skulls.
    â€œThat’s my dad,” Victor said, pointing to a sepia print of a serious-­faced man wearing a suit coat and a bolo tie that