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  Praise for

  Here Today, Gone Tamale

  “This Southwestern cozy comes with a spicy Tex-Mex flair. Its delightful characters and clever mystery will have you stomping your boots for more.”

  —Mary Ellen Hughes, national bestselling author of the Pickled and Preserved Mysteries

  “Adler’s debut sizzles with West Texas flavor and a mystery as satisfying as a plate of fresh tamales. Slip on a pair of cowboy boots, pour yourself a margarita, and kick back to enjoy this Texas-sized delight.”

  —Annie Knox, national bestselling author of the Pet Boutique Mysteries

  “Rebecca Adler’s Here Today, Gone Tamale is a much needed addition to the cozy mystery genre. Terrifically tantalizing . . . and as addictive as a bowl of chips and salsa. Settle in for a mystery fiesta you won’t soon forget.”

  —Melissa Bourbon, national bestselling author of the Magical Dressmaking Mysteries

  “What a tasty idea for a new series! In Here Today, Gone Tamale, Rebecca Adler merges the warm and vibrant West Texas town of Broken Boot with a clever murder mystery that kept me guessing until the exciting finale. Josie is an engaging hero who must solve the mystery while helping her delightfully quirky family and balancing trays of steaming tamales!”

  —Kathy Aarons, author of the Chocolate Covered Mysteries

  Berkley Prime Crime Taste of Texas Mysteries

  HERE TODAY, GONE TAMALE

  THE GOOD, THE BAD, AND THE GUACAMOLE

  CINCO DE MURDER

  BERKLEY PRIME CRIME

  Published by Berkley

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

  Copyright © 2018 by Penguin Group LLC

  Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.

  BERKLEY is a registered trademark and BERKLEY PRIME CRIME and the B colophon are trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Ebook ISBN: 9780698166738

  First Edition: April 2018

  Cover design by Judith Lagerman

  Cover illustration by Ben Perini

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE: The recipes contained in this book have been created for the ingredients and techniques indicated. The Publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require supervision. Nor is the Publisher responsible for any adverse reactions you may have to the recipes contained in the book, whether you follow them as written or modify them to suit your personal dietary needs or tastes.

  Version_2

  For my mother, Mildred JoAnn Wallace Woodall

  Acknowledgments

  As always, big hugs to my family and friends for their patience and encouragement.

  Thanks to Pat French and B.L. Brady, precious friends, whose loving prayers and home-cooked meals warmed my soul during the writing of this book.

  This story was made into a much better book through the efforts of my editor, Rebecca Brewer; copy editor, Randie Lipkin; cover artist, Ben Perini; publicist, Tara O’Connor; and the many fine folks behind the scenes at Berkley Prime Crime and Penguin Random House. Many thanks to you all.

  As always, heartfelt gratitude to my agent, Kimberly Lionetti, and BookEnds Literary Agency for always having my back.

  To the One who created the Chihuahua Desert, the Chisos and Davis Mountains, and the rugged beauty of The Big Bend, thank you for your countless gifts and tender mercies. They are beyond compare.

  Contents

  Praise for Berkley Prime Crime Taste of Texas Mysteries

  Berkley Prime Crime Taste of Texas Mysteries

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1: Folklórico Rehearsal

  Chapter 2: The First Annual Charity Chili Cook-Off Reception

  Chapter 3: Let the Games Begin

  Chapter 4: Aftermath

  Chapter 5: Where There’s a Will . . .

  Chapter 6: Questions Asked

  Chapter 7: Lucky’s Heart Needed a Bit of Help

  Chapter 8: And the Winner Is . . .

  Chapter 9: Break-In at Pinyon Pawn

  Chapter 10: Senora Mari’s Dream

  Chapter 11: The Cinco de Mayo Parade

  Chapter 12: Josie and Patti Do a Bit of Shopping

  Chapter 13: Josie Meets Ryan for a Dance

  Chapter 14: Another Break-In

  Chapter 15: Ryan Dances with Another Woman

  Chapter 16: Questions and Answers on the Rocks

  Chapter 17: Fireworks

  Chapter 18: From Bad to Worse

  Chapter 19: Josie to the Rescue

  Chapter 20: On the Trail

  Chapter 21: Night Moves

  Chapter 22: Monday, Monday

  Lenny’s Little Dog Blog

  Recipes

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  Folklórico Rehearsal

  On such a gorgeous May morning, what could be better than a power walk to Cho’s cleaners with my long-haired Chihuahua, Lenny? The morning sun had tossed a wide blanket of gold over the Davis and Chisos mountains, awakening the piñon pines and the weeping junipers from their slumber, illuminating the bluegrass and scrub so they looked like desert jewels. The plan had been to retrieve my abuela’s folklórico costume and burn some extra calories. And though we made good time—considering the length of my canine sidekick’s pencil-thin appendages—the morning sun galloped down Broken Boot’s cobbled streets while I paid Mr. Cho with a crumpled five-dollar bill and a coupon for a dozen free tamales.

  “Yip.” Lenny lapped from the pet fountain in front of Elaine’s Pies, soaking his black-and-white coat.

  “¡Vámonos, amigo!” If we were late to the final dance rehearsal before the Cinco de Mayo parade, God only knew when Senora Marisol Martinez, our matriarch, would permit me to call her abuela again.

  During my first few months back home, I was elated to find I could accomplish tasks in far less time than in the crowded thoroughfares of Austin. Almost a year later, I was forced to admit the slower pace of our dusty little town didn’t aid me in my quest to check things off my list. It merely encouraged me to meander.

  On that happy thought, Lenny and I raced down the sidewalk toward Milagro. Suddenly I tripped over the plastic clothes bag, nearly kissing the pavement with my face. “Whose great idea was it to rehearse this early?”

  “Yip.”

  “That’s what I was afraid of.”

  When we barreled through the front door of Milagro, the best, and only, Tex-Mex restaurant on Main Street, I expected the folklórico rehearsal to be in full swing. Instead my best friend, Patti Perez, glared at me, which only made me smile. I was wise to her marshmallow center, in spite of her ghostly Goth appearance.

  “Sorry,” I mouthed. After all, it had been my idea for all of us to join the local folkló
rico troupe—my way of embracing life back in good old Broken Boot, Texas.

  “About time,” she chided as I draped Senora Mari’s costume over a stack of hand-painted wooden chairs. In my absence, the other dancers had cleared the dining room to create a dance floor on the beautiful Saltillo tiles.

  “I would have called,” I began.

  “But I was trapped in a dead zone,” we said in unison. Service was so bad in Broken Boot and its outlying communities that folks were slower here than in the rest of the country in ditching their landlines.

  “Where’s Anthony?” When our headwaiter offered his newly formed mariachi band to play for our first performance, I didn’t have the heart to say no. Beggars can’t be choosers, or look a gift band in the mouth.

  “Tsk, tsk.” Across the room, Anthony’s new fiancée placed her hand over the bar phone’s mouthpiece. Though christened Lucinda, we’d quickly dubbed her Cindy to avoid calling her Linda, my aunt’s name, and vice versa. “He says his truck has a flat tire.” She scowled at whatever Anthony said next and responded with a flurry of Spanish.

  “Who doesn’t keep a spare in the desert?” Patti, whom I referred to as Goth Girl if for no other reason than to hear her snort, delivered this line with a deadpan expression and a flick of her rehearsal skirt.

  “Yip,” Lenny said, chasing after her ruffles.

  Goth Girl snapped her head in my direction and gave me the stink eye. “Tell me you replaced your spare.”

  “Uh, well, not yet, but I will after Cinco de Mayo.” Money was a bit tight, what with the loss of tourists during the winter months.

  To my right, Aunt Linda, a stunning middle-aged woman with warm chestnut hair, modeled her bright-colored skirt better than any fashionista in Paris. “That’s what you said about Valentine’s Day.” She was my late mother’s older sister. She might look great in her Wranglers, but she and rhythm had never been introduced.

  “And Saint Patrick’s,” chimed in Senora Mari, executing a double spin. This morning she wore a rehearsal skirt of black-tiered lace along with her Milagro uniform of peasant blouse, gray bun at her nape, and large pink flower behind her ear. No matter how much I rehearsed, none of my moves could compare to her sassy head turns and flamboyant poses. Who knew my seventy-something, four-foot-eleven abuela would turn out to be the star of our ragtag troupe?

  A sharp clapping interrupted our chatter. “Let’s try it on the counts,” cried Mrs. Felicia Cogburn, mayor’s wife and self-appointed dance captain.

  “Yip,” Lenny agreed.

  “Why is that dog here?” Mrs. Cogburn demanded, her hands raised in mid-clap.

  “He has a key role, remember?” My abuela smiled, an expression so rare on her dear weathered face it made folks uncomfortable.

  Mrs. Cogburn blinked several times. “Of course.” Before she could begin, a small truck landed at the curb with a bed full of musicians, trumpets and guitars in full serenade. The band stopped playing long enough to hurry inside.

  “¡Ay, Dios! Senora, I had to borrow a spare. Mine was flat.” Anthony waved his friends into a semicircle just inside the door.

  Senora Mari thrust a finger into the air. “So you say.” She snapped her head dramatically to the side. “Play.”

  With a worried look, Anthony counted off, and the group of dark-haired men and boys began to play the jarabe tapatío, the Mexican hat dance. I spied a familiar face on trumpet. Anthony’s little sister Lily gave me a wink and a nod.

  As the trumpets and guitars played, Mrs. Cogburn called out, “And one, two, three, four.”

  “Where’s your skirt?” Patti asked as we twirled first right and then left.

  “Ah, chicken sticks.” I dodged the dancers, ran up the stairs to my loft apartment, and retrieved my long skirt from a chrome dining chair.

  “Yip, yip, yip,” Lenny cried from the bottom of the stairs.

  “Sorry.” I found his straw hat on the yellow Formica table and made it downstairs without mishap. “Here you go, handsome.” I perched the hat on his head and tightened the elastic under his chin. As we danced, Lenny would spin in place on his back legs, melting the hearts of the crowd faster than fried ice cream in August.

  “Yip.”

  I hurried to my place on the back row next to Patti as the band launched into their next number, “El Mariachi.”

  “Josie, stand up straight,” called Mrs. Cogburn. “Linda, you’re turning in the wrong direction.”

  After running through our routine six times without a break, we collapsed into the dining room with refreshments. I was removing Lenny’s straw hat when the cowbell over the front door clanged.

  A middle-aged man with a gray buzz cut and white coveralls stepped inside. “Howdy.” He checked his clipboard and gave us an expectant smile. “I’m looking for Mrs. Cogburn.”

  “That’s me.” With a hand to her hair, Mrs. Cogburn stepped forward. “As long as you’re not from the IRS.” She giggled, her cheeks flushing a soft pink.

  Aunt Linda marched to the front door. “We have plenty of parking on the side of our building.” She pointed through the doorway to where a white cargo van, emblazoned with FILLMORE’S FIREWORKS, stood double-parked. “Why don’t you use it instead of blocking traffic?”

  Buzz Cut’s eyes narrowed. “Maybe I’d forgotten how ornery and downright persnickety small-town business owners can be.”

  A tense silence followed as he glared at her and she glared at him. Suddenly they burst into laughter and hugged. “Frank, what are you doing here? I thought you’d moved to Marshall or Longview, somewhere out in the Piney Woods.”

  With a self-conscious smile, he ran a hand through his hair. “I did, but business still takes me out this way a few times a year.”

  Patti and I exchanged glances. I had never seen my business-minded aunt react so warmly to any man except Uncle Eddie.

  With a glance at our curious faces, Aunt Linda presented Buzz Cut like a sequined model presenting a heavy-load truck to a mesmerized crowd at the El Paso Car Show. “My prom date in high school, Frank Fillmore.” With a flourish, she swung her arm wide. “And this is everybody.”

  “Nice to meet all of y’all.” His eyes widened as he took in the large group of dancers and musicians. His grin revealed a wide space between his two front teeth. “Hola, ¿cómo estás?”

  “Fatal,” Senora Mari muttered. “Are we going to dance or chatter like squirrels?”

  “Senora.” His eyes twinkled with good humor. “Would your cooking be the source of the amazing, mouthwatering aroma of this place?”

  She shrugged. “It’s my kitchen, so it must be true.”

  “And I bet it’s your way or the highway.”

  After a moment of hesitation, she honored him with a careful smile. “Sí. Of course.”

  “My wife, Felicia, was the same way.” His expression softened. “Had to be in charge of the kitchen, didn’t want any help. Didn’t even trust me to wash a dish.”

  “Come back after lunch and we’ll set you up with all the dishes you can handle,” I said. If the dishwasher didn’t show up, me, myself, and the busboy were screwed.

  Everyone laughed. Even Senora Mari added her abrupt ha-ha-ha.

  “This young lady with the sassy mouth is my niece, Josie Callahan.” Aunt Linda raised an eyebrow and gave me a look of gentle reproach.

  “Miss Callahan.”

  “Frank, we’ll have to catch up later. Glad you’re back this year for Saturday’s big show.”

  Mrs. Cogburn clasped her joined hands to her chest. “Mr. Fillmore, please accept my apologies. I should have recognized you from the last time you participated in our Cinco de Mayo festivities, regardless of your new hairstyle.”

  “No need to apologize.” He gave her a brief smile. “But I do need someone to follow me to the fairgrounds. The mayor wanted a bigger show; and it requires a dif
ferent setup.”

  Aunt Linda took Mrs. Mayor by the arm. “Senora Mari will take them through their paces, won’t you?” She raised a brow at her mother-in-law.

  My abuela studied us like a drill sergeant studies his rough recruits. “Sí, I will lead.”

  “I wish my husband was here. He would make it plain as day.”

  “I can go,” I said.

  “Jo Jo, you stay.” Uncle Eddie entered from the hallway, dressed in his usual attire: pressed jeans, plaid Western shirt, and leather vest. “You and I need to go over the last-minute details for tomorrow. I don’t want no International Chili Association official to tear a strip off my hide.” A tourist at Two Boots dance hall, our other establishment, might suspect Uncle Eddie of wearing a costume. Little did they know, he wore the same outfit day in and day out.

  “I’ll be glad to help out.” Aunt Linda threw an arm around Mrs. Cogburn’s shoulders.

  I waited for my aunt to introduce Frank Fillmore to my uncle, but the introduction never came.

  “¡Vámonos! Don’t stand around gawking.” Senora Mari took her place front and center while the rest of us darted into position and the band started to play.

  After a word to Fillmore, Mrs. Cogburn returned to her charges. “And one, two, three, four.”

  Uncle Eddie made for Milagro’s office just as Frank Fillmore opened the front door for my aunt. She caught my eye, glanced toward her husband’s retreating back, and, with an impish grin, lifted a finger to her lips.

  * * *

  • • •

  Two hours later, my abuela threw her copy of the Broken Boot Bugle onto the counter. “¡Suficiente! Who cares if you break one or two rules?”

  Senora Mari was not my grandmother. Technically, she was my Aunt Linda’s mother-in-law, but since I’d been raised in their home after the car accident that claimed both my parents, she often allowed me to refer to her as abuela. But if Lenny had been under foot or barked too loudly in the morning, she would remind me that Senora Mari was her rightful title.