Cinco de Mayhem by Ann Myers Page B

pointedly.
    â€œYes, we know that you know,” Flori added, thumping her fist on the table.
    Jenkins tilted his head and I saw that his crownwas thinning. He’d let the remaining hair, a mix of wiry gray and wispy strawberry blond, grow long enough to fluff over the bare patch. “Know what?” he said. “What’s wrong with you people? And what’s with all this junk on your ceiling? This isn’t Mexico. It’s New Mexico, and we have strict health codes.”
    â€œThere’s nothing about piñatas in our health code,” Flori countered. “And what Rita means is, we know that you and Napoleon were colluding to put Tía Tamales out of business. Now tell us the whole story and maybe we won’t go to the police or the press.” She tapped her fingers on the wooden table and added ominously, “Maybe.”
    â€œMaybe I’m due to check out this place.” The inspector might be rumpled, but his voice had a sharp edge. He tugged in the lapels of his shapeless suit coat. “How about I start right now? Or should I surprise you later?” His watery eyes scanned the room.
    What had I missed in my cleaning spree? The ceiling and mariachi band, that’s what. They hadn’t been touched. And what about the salt and pepper shakers? I glanced at the salt shaker inches from Jenkins’s hand and noticed a fingerprint smudge. Or maybe it didn’t matter. Someone who could plant an entire cockroach in a wrapped and steamed tamale probably would have no qualms about sprinkling around mouse droppings. Did Jenkins have some on hand, in another plastic bag stuffed in his pockets?
    Flori would not be cowered. “Linda Santiago is my daughter, Inspector. If you think I’ll leave any tainted tamale unturned, you don’t know me.” She thumped the table with her fist.
    Goose bumps rose on my arm. Flori was a fierce tigress mother protecting her daughter.
    But Gerald Jenkins had a threat of his own. “Ma’am, if you had any evidence of wrongdoing, you wouldn’t have asked me here. You’d have gone straight to my boss or the police. Tell you what, if you care so much about your daughter, I can make that bug report go away.” He picked up another cookie. “Think about it,” he said. “Have your daughter call me. Or you call me. Either way. We may be able to come to a mutually agreeable arrangement, if you understand what I mean.”
    I understood him. He’d essentially demanded a payoff right here in front of me, Flori, and the mariachi band.
    He drank his coffee slowly, siphoning it through his teeth. The liquid in the cup barely diminished with each sip. I willed him to glug it down and leave. He was a disturbing man, slimy under his rumpled suit. But there was something else too.
    â€œYou look familiar,” I said. Squinting, I tried to figure out what was bugging me.
    The left corner of his lip curled up. “You were on the Plaza the other day, weren’t you? The day I had to shut down Tía Tamales for violating health codes? I remember you and your friend getting in the way.”
    â€œNot just that . . .” I willed my brain to connect the dots.
    He shrugged and pushed back a stringy lock of strawberry blond hair. That was it! The red hair. The jowly jaw. “Do you have a son, Mr. Jenkins?”
    His frown told me that I was on to something. I turned to Flori. “The young man who ‘discovered’the bug in Linda’s tamale had red hair too and a striking family resemblance.”
    â€œIs that so?” Flori said, narrowing her eyes.
    Jenkins siphoned up more coffee. “Yeah. So what? That was my son, Junior. He’s got my name, and I guess he picked up my nose for food contamination too.”
    Flori and I exchanged a knowing glance. Addie, wiping down tables nearby, gasped and hurried back to the kitchen.
    â€œGood to know, Mr. Jenkins,” Flori said. “Come on,