Bread of the Dead: a Santa Fe Cafe Mystery
“Jake said gently.
I was already beyond panic. “The police? She’s with the police?” Tension froze through my shoulders, working its way into my arms and hands until I could barely punch in my voice-mail code. Jake held out my chair and touched my arm. I sat back down, shakily. The phone took its sweet time describing how many messages it had collected. Three, its robotic voice declared, and again I heard judgment in the tone. The last message came in about thirty-five minutes ago.
I rubbed my forehead, pushing throbbing stress from temple to temple as I listened to the first message.
“Hey, Mom? It’s me. What’s up?” Celia’s voice sounded perky, which if you know Celia in her teen years is nothing like her typical bored-yet-surly affectation. However, under normal circumstances I might have interpreted this as Celia being nice, not a tip-off to what came next. “Listen, Mom, this is totally messed up.
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