Cinco de Mayhem by Ann Myers

perspective suddenly, and Brigitte Voll came into focus in one of the large paned windows. She must have sensed the camera’s shift because she drew back, out of view, into the dark interior of the restaurant.
    Poor Brigitte. The last thing she needed was to be hounded by the press. I felt responsible and vowed I’d call her for that coffee. I’d take her some soup. I’d get her some nice flowers or bake her a cake or . . .
    Milan’s perfect eyebrows were center frame again. “Diners, chefs, and kitchen workers in the City Different won’t rest easily until the brutal murderer is brought to justice,” she said.
    I pulled the bedcovers to my chin. Forget cake and flowers. I’d warn Brigitte to watch her back and tell my friends at Tres Amigas to do the same.

Chapter 9
    T he food inspector arrived at high noon the next day. He stood in the doorway of Tres Amigas, the bags under his eyes sagging as much as his wrinkled suit, slumped shoulders, and low-hanging jowls, which reminded me of Winston’s bulldog flaps. Winston, however, was a whole lot cuter, drool included.
    Addie had alerted me to his arrival. “Oy,” she’d said, in a bit of misplaced Australian. “That bloke over there’s asking for you.”
    I’d peeked through the pass-through, expecting Milan and her news camera, fearing that Manny had blown my anonymous cover. When I recognized the inspector, I ducked to counter level.
    â€œDid I do the wrong thing?” Addie’s fake lashes widened. “He wanted to know who was asking about the health inspector. He says that’s him. I remembered you and Miss Flori yesterday saying you wanted to find that inspector, and here he is, right at our doorstep.”
    â€œYou did the right thing,” I assured Addie. “Nothing’s wrong.” I held back adding yet . “Will you go look for Flori?” I asked her. “I think she’s in the pantry. And here . . .” I gave up hiding, grabbed a hairnet from the box on the counter, and squished it over Addie’s wig. Then I grabbed some more plastic hats for me and Flori and a resistant Juan.
    â€œNo hair, see?” Juan patted his head.
    This was untrue, I told him. He did have hair, even if it was buzz-cut to near baldness. He also had the shadow of a thin mustache and skinny beard hugging the ridge of his chin, clearly distinguished by a shaving line of laser-cut crispness. I wondered if we had any beard guards. Probably not. Tres Amigas had been all amigas until Flori, conceding that she might need extra help, hired Juan and some guys to help with occasional heavy lifting.
    Juan was looking mutinous. Could I improvise a beard guard by looping the cap around his prominent ears? I leaned closer, tilting my head as I considered his facial fuzz.
    â€œNo!” he said, eyes narrowed, guessing my intent. For added emphasis, he shook a spatula at me. “No way! You put a shower cap on my face, I go home. Addie can grill.”
    It was a good threat, considering all that Addie could set alight on a grill. I reconsidered Juan’s skinny stubble. Maybe the inspector was here by chance, for a simple meal and not hair checks. Maybe he’d heard about our famously fluffy chiles rellenos or Flori’s legendary blue corn waffles, which were on special today with Cinco de Mayotoppings of chorizo, roasted jalapeños, fresh Mexican farm cheese, and sweet chile maple syrup or savory chorizo gravy.
    â€œThe food inspector, he’s over there,” I whispered to Flori when she came in cradling a jumbo-sized bag of chocolate chips. Her hairnet rested on the rims of her glasses. Addie’s perched atop her wig, jauntily tilted in beret fashion.
    â€œHow did he know to come here?” I murmured, knowing full well. I’d opened my big mouth and brought trouble on us.
    â€œI called his office and told him to come on over,” Flori said, plopping the chocolate