I feared what Flori was cooking up. My elderly friend is famous around Santa Fe. She’s renowned for her tasty tamales, her fabulous frijoles, and her amazing carne adovada. She’s also a well-known snoop, with a sixth sense to boot. When I started working at Tres Amigas, just after moving to Santa Fe some three years ago, I had no chance of hiding my own sleuthing tendencies from her. But I was always a reluctant sleuth, and now I was giving it up for good. If only Flori would listen…
“We’ll get out my new zoom lens,” she was saying. “Then we wait until dark and hoist you over Gloria’s garden wall. You find yourself a view of the kitchen and wait until you can catch Armida in the baking act. Photographic evidence. That’s what we need. We’ll get them both disqualified. Ha!”
I struggled to find a nice, polite way to say, No way!
Flori kept going. “I’ve already checked out her perimeter. No sharp pointy bits on the wall that I can see, and all those home security signs are probably fakes.”
“Don’t worry, Rita. I’ll fix you some snacks in case you have to stay out there a while. What would you like? Frito pie? That worked well last time, except for the chili con carne going cold and getting in your hair when you tangled with that cactus.” She chuckled at the memory of my Frito fiasco.
I didn’t care what she said. I wasn’t about to be hoisted anywhere. The last time I heaved myself over a wall on one of Flori’s snooping quests, spilled chili wasn’t the worst of our problems. Drug dealers were, and we hadn’t gone looking for them in the first place. That was the old me, though. New me wouldn’t chase after criminals or stick her nose into investigations or sit out in coyote country with snack food. New me would embrace low-stress hobbies like landscape painting or herb gardening or perhaps yoga.
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