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

resembled the turquoise one around Victor’s neck. “And this is Mom.” He picked up a photo of a smiling lady with a wide nose and broad cheeks like his own.
    As he pointed out other relations, I made appreciative sounds and told him how much I admired his family’s sense of history. I did admire it, although it pressed a guilt button. Could I name my great-­aunt’s cousin, let alone find a framed picture of her? I probably couldn’t recall all of my great-­grandparents’ names, and last year I’d proved that I couldn’t pick a first cousin out of a police lineup. Worst of all, I was shamefully behind on calling my mom and sister. Mom had left a phone message and several e-­mails. I vowed to e-­mail her. I knew she’d prefer a call or better yet a visit, but I dreaded her worries, which often morphed into critiques. How is Celia coping? How will you cope, alone? You’re a cook. Why don’t you come home and cook?
    I’d given up trying to explain to Mom that Santa Fe, not Bucks Grove, Illinois, was my home now. Sure, I hadn’t lived here long, and I only moved to try to save my marriage. I’d thought—­incorrectly—­that Manny’s discontent arose from big-­city-­cop burnout, potentially curable by reuniting with his small-­city roots and family. After all, he always said he wanted to return to Santa Fe someday. When we met in Denver two decades ago, I was in culinary school and Manny was a dashing patrolman with urban-­detective aspirations. After Celia came along, we moved closer to my mom and sister, choosing a suburb within driving distance of both Bucks Grove and Chicago. Manny earned a detective’s badge in the city, while I took care of Celia, worried about my crime-­fighting husband, and cooked part-­time at a French restaurant. I liked our town and my work well enough. They were fine, though not enthralling or enchanting. Manny, meanwhile, never meshed with his jobs or the Midwest. He switched departments and positions and became increasingly restless with work . . . and with me.
    Although Santa Fe failed to save our marriage, it transformed my life for the better in other ways. Flori hired me even though I’d never put hot peppers in my breakfast waffles and couldn’t distinguish an ancho chile from a chipotle. She claimed that she sensed a shared spirit between us. Maybe it was our mutual knack for snooping. Then there was the place itself. The vast landscapes, the special light, the scent of roasting chiles, and, yes, even the painted bones enthralled me. I understood but couldn’t quite articulate what Georgia O’Keeffe and others have felt. I belonged here. I had found my true hometown, the place I was meant to be. Mom didn’t get the special light and breakfast chiles, but she usually conceded that I shouldn’t tear Celia away from her dad and final years of high school.
    Tuning back into Victor’s explanation of his altar, I thought of other aspects of Santa Fe that I loved, namely the wonderful ­people and vibrant traditions.
    â€œIn Spanish this is called an ofrenda , an offering,” he was saying, waving his big hands to encompass the whole structure. Candlelight reflected off the thick silver rings and turquoise stones adorning his fingers. “The idea goes back to the Aztecs, who gave their dead food for their journey to the netherworld. Now we celebrate the older beliefs together with All Saints’ and All Souls’ Days and Halloween too. This weekend, before the spirits return, I’ll add more drinks and foods that my relatives liked. We don’t expect that they’ll actually consume it, of course, but it’s said that the spirits can smell and taste the food. I’ll put out other special things too, like this deck of cards for my Uncle Alejandro.”
    I wished I could taste some of the food already in place, especially the