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chimed. Did my daughter have a boyfriend? I pondered this for several blocks of car silence.
    â€œHold my phone?” I asked her when we stopped at a four-way intersection and waited for a herdof camera-wielding tourists to pass. “I am waiting for a call. From Linda. If it rings and you see it’s her, will you answer?”
    My daughter forgot her silent treatment. “Poor Tía Linda. Kids are calling her stand the ‘cockroach cart.’ I told them to shut up.”
    Great . If high-schoolers knew about the tainted tamale, the whole town probably did. “Cass and I were there when the bug was supposedly found. We think Linda was set up.”
    Celia didn’t need convincing. “No doubt. You’ll help her, right?”
    I glanced at Celia, surprised. Her typical response to my sleuthing is a dramatic display of teen embarrassment. Eye-rolling, sighing, shoulder heaving, foot stomping, you name it, voiced over with, “Geez, Mom, leave things alone.”
    â€œBullies are the worst,” she muttered. “They shouldn’t mess with Tía Linda.”
    â€œAbsolutely,” I said, hopefully with more confidence that I felt. “Flori and I will help. Tía Linda will be fine.”
    But how could I help? And would Linda let me? The phone remained silent through dinner, my evening walk, and as I nodded over my bedtime reading. At nearly midnight I gave up. Turning off the lamp but not the phone, I vowed to call Linda tomorrow. If she didn’t answer, I’d track her down.

    T racking wasn’t necessary. When the cell phone’s melody rang in the darkness, I initially incorporated it into my dream, an anxiety nightmare involving a packed auditorium and me, partially unclothed and totally unprepared to lecture on Cinco de Mayo cuisine. The nightmare audience included my high school gym class, Jake, Mom, and George Clooney.
    Dreamtime me was cowering behind a podium when I realized the ringing was real. I grabbed the phone and answered in automatic maternal worry mode. “Hello? Celia?” I remembered that Celia was presumably sleeping down the hall about the moment I recognized Linda’s voice.
    â€œLinda?” I said, resisting the urge to ask, Do you know what time it is? I didn’t know myself, except that the room was still dark and my eyelids wouldn’t fully open.
    My grumpiness faded as Linda gushed apologies. “Oh Rita, I’m so sorry. It’s not even six and I shouldn’t call you and I wouldn’t except, oh heaven help me . . .”
    Now I was awake, wide-awake. Blood rushed through my head. I sat up and fumbled with the light. “Linda, what’s wrong?”
    Muffled prayers came from her end, a jumble of English and Spanish.
    â€œLinda!” I practically yelled. “What’s happening?”
    â€œNapoleon,” she cried out. “He’s . . . he’s dead.”
    Good riddance nearly fell from my mouth. Then reality struck me. Dead? Napoleon was a jerk, but a man not that much older than me. How sad and shocking, but how did Linda know? And why call me? The tragic news could have waited for hot coffee and hushed gossip over breakfast.
    â€œMy cart,” she said in between gulping sobs. “He’s under my tamale cart, Rita. Come to the Plaza, please. We have to do something!”

    I sped to the Plaza, breaking traffic laws on the empty streets. There would be no helping Napoleon. I saw that right away. His eyes stared blankly heavenward, toward the charcoal dawn sky that would turn into a sunny Santa Fe day. His cheeks puffed as if stuffed. His chest pushed up the front wheels of Linda’s cart. One arm extended above his head, the pale underside up, the hand twisted downward. On his wrist, a flashy gold watch was cracked and broken.
    Except for Napoleon, Linda and I were alone on the Plaza. I’d parked my car next to her truck, both in illegal spots. A parking ticket was the