Page 77 of Christmas Mittens Murder

“Rafael,” Ed boomed. “Come in, come in. You are welcome.” He hurried, beaming, toward the newcomer.

“Maybe we’ll stay put another minute?” Cam murmured.

“We will.”

A moment later, Ed led the woman as well as Rafael toward us. “Cece Barton, meet Rafael Torres. And this is Cam . . . I apologize, Cam, I can’t remember your last name.”

“Flaherty.” She smiled at Rafael.

“But I’m afraid this nice lady has been waiting for Cece’s seat, Rafael,” Ed said. “I’m sure another table or stool will open up soon.”

“Good to meet you, Rafael,” I said. “Cam and I were about to go for a beer at the brewpub around the corner. Would you like to join us there? You don’t mind, Ed, do you?”

“Not a bit,” Ed said, giving a knowing nod.

Rafael looked a bit bewildered. “Well, if you ladies are sure. It’s been quite a week, and I appreciate the offer.”

“We’re sure,” Cam said. “Come with us.”

“Enjoy your lunch, ma’am,” I said to the woman, who also appeared bewildered. “Talk to you soon, Ed.”

I followed Cam and Rafael out, more than happy that Cam could lead the questioning, if questioning was what was going to transpire. I’d already proved less than competent in getting information out of people.

Chapter Thirteen

We found a vacant booth in the back corner of the Hoppy Hills pub where we might be able to hear each other. The lights on strings draped along the walls were hop-shaped, with pointed overlapping scales making them look like thin artichokes. A lamp on each table was shaped the same way. Christmas carols sung by various current and former artists played, and the buzz of conversation from Friday afternoon drinkers was loud. The place smelled of beer and fried food and companionship.

After Rafael sat on one side of the booth, Cam and I slid in across from him. A waitperson of indeterminate gender with purple hair and lots of piercings came by to take our orders.

“Start with drinks?” the server asked.

“Your hoppiest IPA for me,” I said. Rafael added a sour for himself, and Cam went for a porter.

“You got it,” the server said. “Anybody want food?”

“I’ll take a look at the menu.” Rafael took another glance at the waitperson. “Is that Pat?”

“Hey, Mr. Torres, how are ya?”

“I’m fine. How are things going for you?”

“I’m doing much better, thank you.” He—or she—turned away.

“I had them in AP physics,” he said. “Brilliant kid who went through a rough patch. Not sure why they’re waiting tables, but it’s none of my business.”

He was fluent with the indeterminate pronouns, as a teacher who worked with teens should be. I’d grown up before the new acceptance of gender fluidity in the language, but Zoe had made clear how important it was for friends of hers. I had no objection.

“How long have you been a teacher, Rafael?” I asked. It was an innocent enough question not to get me in trouble. We were here to glean information from him, after all.

“I’ve been at Colinas High since I left the navy twenty years ago and moved back home. I joined the service for the benefits, but I stayed on and taught at a base high school for a couple of years.”

Pat delivered our beers.

“I’d like the black bean burger, please,” Rafael told the server, “with cole slaw instead of fries.”

“Can you add an order of the deep-fried artichoke hearts for the table, too?” Cam asked.

Pat nodded and turned away.

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