The Good, the Bad and the Guacamole Read online

  With a purse of her lips, she cradled the phone. “He is there.”

  “Who was that?”

  She lifted her chin proudly, peering up at me from her diminutive height. “The hotel desk clerk plays bingo on Monday nights.” She lifted two fingers and pressed them together. “We are like this.”

  I broke into a grin and hugged her before she could retreat. “Thank you, thank you, Abuela.”

  “Okay, okay.” She backed out of my arms, but a smile played around her mouth.

  “You are the best.”

  “Of course.” She gave me a curt nod and headed for the grill to inspect the chicken Carlos was currently cooking, though we both knew he had no need for oversight.

  “See you later.”

  As she sprinkled cayenne pepper over the scintillating grill, her voice rang out. “If they give you the runaround, you call me. I’ll knock some smarts into them.”

  That was a match I’d pay to see: my guinea hen–sized abuela socking it to LA agent Ken Price.

  Chapter 8

  The Cogburn Hotel’s distinctive lobby, replete with buffalo and antelope heads, exposed beams, and mosaic tile, gave me a warm Southwestern welcome.

  “Hello,” I said in greeting to the sturdy middle-aged Latina behind the registration desk. She had to be Senora Mari’s friend from bingo night, for they were as alike as two dried chile peppers, except for the fact that this woman was five to ten years younger. She wore her reddish-brown hair in a low bun, plus hand-painted reading glasses, a gold vest, and a matching skirt with a navy blouse.

  “May I help?”

  “Uh, I’m Josie Callahan.” Should I mention her phone conversation with Senora Mari?

  “Ah yes. Good morning.” Her smile was startling white against her tanned face and red lips. Her dark eyes warmed with instant friendship.

  “Is Mr. Price available?”

  After a quick glance around the lobby, she keyed in a few words and her computer screen changed. “He checked in last night.”

  “Have you seen him today?”

  She peered at me over her glasses and shook her head with the smallest of movements. I knew that under the hotel’s privacy policy she couldn’t give out his room number.

  A short well-manicured finger pointed across the lobby. “I’ll have him call you on the house phone.”

  With a grateful nod, I crossed to the red leather wingback chair and waited. I couldn’t make out what she said, but I witnessed her use of the phone and her lips moving, and a few nods of her head. “Thank you, Mr. Price.” I could hear those final words from across the room.

  “Thanks.”

  She gave me a wink and went back to the paperwork on her desk. The lobby was quiet. The buffalo and antelope studied me with their glassy eyes from the stucco walls of their permanent home. I had a moment to study the beams above me and to ponder if they were authentic or added after the fact for atmosphere.

  After a minute, the pedestal phone on the leather-topped table beside me rang, quiet and unobtrusive, polite.

  “Mr. Price?”

  “Ken.” The voice was brisk but flat, as if the flight from LA had pressed all the vitality from his vocal cords. “Make it fast.”

  “This is Josie Callahan.”

  “Got it in one. As you can guess, I waltzed into a cataclysmic cyclone of chaos this morning.”

  “Uh, well, when you and I spoke yesterday, you indicated you would answer a few questions for the local paper.”

  “Absolutely.” A forced politeness entered his voice, as if we were fast friends. “I want to talk to you about Jeff—of course I do.”

  “I wouldn’t need but a few minutes of your time. I want to represent Mr. Clark in the best way possible in my article, and you too.” He would need to promote his other clients in spite of the murder of this one. As an agent, he might appreciate the interview from a business angle.

  “I have to shower and shave. I could meet you in a couple of hours.”

  “Why don’t we meet for breakfast at Elaine’s Pies? It’s next door to the hotel.” Even though Elaine Burnett was currently serving time in Huntsville, I couldn’t stand the thought of her family, namely her oldest daughter, Suellen, suffering due to the fact her mother was a loony bird. “Their quiches are to die for.” A poor choice of words. “You name it, they’ve got it.”

  “Huh. So they carry cage-free egg-white omelets?” His veneer of civility was wearing thin as old boot leather.

  “Um, I bet you’ll find something you like.” His style of breakfast wasn’t foreign to me—I’d lived in Austin, for pity’s sake. I wasn’t going to let the LA demeanor and sense of entitlement I heard in his voice deter me from my objective: a good story. “Want to meet in, say, an hour?”

  “You’re persistent. I like that.” Mr. Friendly had returned.

  I waited.

  “All right. See you at . . .”

  “Elaine’s.”

  “Right.” He chuckled as if I were some kid in need of encouragement, and hung up.

  I found myself staring at the phone in wonder. If I didn’t know better, I’d say Ken Price was the stereotypical money-grubbing agent. I sighed. That was being judgmental, and I was trying so hard to put my peccadillos behind me.

  “Gracias.” I waved to the hotel clerk and headed out into the warm September sun. With the hour I now had at my disposal, I was going to find out more about Jeff Clark and who wanted him dead.

  I drove the Prius over to Two Boots. When I spotted the El Camino, I pumped my fist in exhilaration. “You’re mine, bucko.” I do love it when I can fit errands into tiny increments of time between other chores. Makes me feel all kinds of efficient.

  I entered through the side door and into the dim lighting of the hallway that led to my uncle’s office. As imagined, he was sitting in front of the television, watching game film of recent football games. This one appeared to consist of two small colleges, McMurry and Hardin-Simmons.

  “Hola.” I kissed the top of his head.

  His eyes remained riveted to the screen. “Hey, Jo Jo. What’s up?”

  “Where’s Ty?”

  “Had to see a man about a dog. Cool your jets.” He gestured to the empty guest chair in front of the TV.

  “Don’t tell me you’ve recruited him to help you?” Uncle Eddie often assisted Coach Ryan by watching films of other games in the conference. Since the NCAA had named my uncle Rookie of the Year in Division III football as a freshman, an unprecedented honor for a West Texas College athlete, he’d never quite left his cleats behind.

  “This is my way of paying him back for extending my contract.” Ty Honeycutt stood in the doorway, as if posing for a fashion spread in GQ, the redneck edition. His wavy brown hair was uncovered for once, which left it free to form a cloud around his head. On his feet, he wore athletic shoes instead of boots, and he’d exchanged his skintight jeans and Western shirt for a pair of cargo shorts and a T-shirt that read Hogsbreath Saloon, Florida.

  “That so?” I asked. “You played again last night, I hear.”

  Uncle Eddie kept his eyes glued to the game.

  “And I’m playing again tonight,” Ty said with a smug smile. “The crowd just couldn’t get enough of this handsome face. Ain’t that right?” He slapped my uncle on the back.

  “Hmm,” Uncle Eddie said, which told me he hadn’t discussed the added performance with Aunt Linda.

  I caught myself smiling at Ty’s good-ole-boy antics and quickly reminded myself that he was well on his way to checking all the vices off his bucket list: women, booze, gambling, lying, and sloth. And who knew what he practiced in his own home?

  Someone else might have cut him some slack, as a crazy woman had murdered his aunt—who was like a mother to him—only three months prior. But not me. He’d embraced his vices long before that tragic event.
Any hope I held that his grief would cause him to clean up his act had gone the way of his Marlboros. Up in smoke.

  “Don’t tell me.” I shook my head in mock amazement. “You were an all-star quarterback in your day.”

  One side of his mouth kicked up. “Nah, running back. I could run the quarter mile in nothing flat.” With a grin, he flopped into the chair and promptly ignored me in favor of the twenty-two men running around in tight pants and space helmets on the screen.

  I grabbed the backs of their chairs and leaned in close. “Finding you two together is like birthday cake at Christmas! Couldn’t have asked for better.”

  “Watch out, son.” Uncle Eddie took a sip of coffee from his West Texas mug. “That means she’s about to ask you a barrelful of questions.”

  Ty chuckled. “I don’t have to answer, do I?”

  “Nope.” Uncle Eddie flung a glance at me over his shoulder. “Not unless you want her to keep pestering you.” He raised his eyes to the ceiling. “But she’s like a dog with a T-bone. Going to nibble at you until she digs the marrow from your bones.”

  “Ignore him.” I stepped closer, hoping to keep their attention away from the football antics, which bored me silly from too much exposure. “Did you meet Jeff Clark before he died?”

  “She gets right to the point, don’t she?” I couldn’t help but appreciate the way Ty deflected the question with another question of his own.

  “Yep, she’s cutthroat that way,” Uncle Eddie said.

  “Yes or no, Honeycutt?”

  “Sure. What of it?”

  “Did you play cards with him?”

  That got his attention. “Hell, no.” About three months ago, I’d led the sheriff’s department to one of Ty’s clandestine poker games and watched as Lightfoot hauled his butt off to jail on suspicion of killing his aunt.

  Uncle Eddie peeled his eyes from the football game long enough to give his friend a look of disbelief. “Not once?”

  “We might have discussed it, but he only came into town Thursday morning. It’s not like we had time to play Texas Hold ’Em during his sound check.”

  “Did he ask you to find him a game?” I asked.

  Ty’s jaw clenched. “Yeah.”

  I threw out a softball to see who would swing first. “I heard he had a gambling problem.”

  Uncle Eddie nodded his head slowly. “Something somebody said makes me think you’re right.”

  “Did you hear anything about that?”

  Ty had returned his attention to the television. The offense was punting and the kicker booted one into the end zone. “Maybe something. Why does it matter, shorty?”

  “Just answer the question,” I said.

  “I’ll answer yours if you answer mine.”

  “Maybe his gambling debts caught up with him?”

  “And someone murdered him over them. Not bad, Nancy Drew.”

  “You still haven’t told me where you heard about his gambling.”

  “One of the guys in my band played in a high-stakes game with Jeff Clark in Tulsa. He mentioned Clark would be looking for a game when he came to town.”

  “Was there any hint that Clark had a gambling problem?”

  He shrugged and took a moment to crack his knuckles. “No, except that I could make big money if I played with Clark.”

  “Not much of a winner?”

  “Or he didn’t know when to quit.” This from Uncle Eddie. “What? I’m not saying I gamble, but I hear enough to know that’s when you get in trouble is when you don’t know when to walk away.” He gestured toward the television. “Same’s true in football. Walk away while the walking is good.”

  The phone rang, and Uncle Eddie paused the film.

  With a glance at my uncle, Ty walked into the hall and gestured for me to follow. “What’s in it for you?” he asked softly.

  “I want my piece for the Bugle to be accurate, not a whitewash.”

  “You trying to solve the murder?” He gave me the once-over, not overly aggressively—just a neighborly sizing-up.

  “No. I’m concentrating on my relationship with the Bugle, not with the sheriff’s department.”

  “I wouldn’t be so quick to assume it was his gambling got him into trouble.”

  “No?”

  “Here’s what else I know.” He leaned in, and again I resisted the urge to back away. “He had chick problems.”

  I raised my eyebrows in question.

  “Yeah, he was a little too fresh with the ladies.”

  “You would know all about that.”

  He frowned. “So you say. I, at least, am a one-at-a-time kind of guy.”

  “So you say.”

  “Fine,” he said, turning away.

  I placed a hand on his shoulder. “I apologize. What was your point?”

  “Lots of local girls are plumb crazy, and he knew lots of local girls.”

  “And?”

  “And that’s all there is to know about that.” He glanced at my hand where it still rested on his shoulder and smiled, his dimples in full view. “Unless I can help you with something else?”

  I jumped back as if I’d placed my hand on a hot burner. “Not in this lifetime, buster.”

  He merely laughed and cruised into Uncle Eddie’s man cave, leaving me to digest the new tidbit he’d tossed my way.

  * * *

  It didn’t take long to drive back down to Main Street, parallel the Prius in front of Elaine’s Pies, and scramble inside.

  “Josie,” a familiar voice called in excitement.

  “Lily.” Anthony’s younger sister filled her meager free time with working at both Milagro and Elaine’s Pies to help her provide for the two of them, plus their younger brother and sister. Tough cookie, and even harder worker. “Are you busing tables?”

  “A bit. I’m mostly hosting this week, but Suellen—I mean, Miss Burnett—said she’d give me a table or two this week if business picks up.”

  “And you’re keeping your grades up?” We had a deal. If she stayed in school and kept her grades up, she’d continue to have a job at Milagro.

  She shrugged. “Sure. It’s only the second week.”

  I lifted my fist for a knuckle bump. “That’s awesome.”

  A tall, skinny, elbows-and-knees kind of woman spotted us from the serving window and made her way across the restaurant to us. “Josie? How can we help you?”

  I felt the corners of my lips lift in a smile, but I was still a bit overwhelmed whenever Suellen and I came face-to-face. I had helped the police solve Dixie Honeycutt’s murder. Unfortunately for Suellen and her sister, Melanie, I had also proven their mother was behind it.

  “Josie Callahan,” came a cry from behind me.

  Andrew, the restaurant host and Suellen’s right hand, entered from the kitchen with a wide, toothy grin. As usual, his black slacks and dress shirt were immaculate. His green-and-white-polka-dotted bow tie lightened my spirits.

  “When is Lenny posting again? He’s been a bit lazy about maintaining his blog over the past two weeks.”

  I laughed. “He posted last night, as a matter of fact.”

  “Ah,” Andrew said, rubbing his hands together as if he were a villain in a melodrama or a small child looking forward to a double-dip cone. “I await his erudite wisdom and choice of phrase.”

  Suellen looked first at one and then the other of us, her face a study in concentration. Apparently, she wasn’t a fan.

  “My dog.”

  “Heavens, I know who Lenny is, but I didn’t know he was a writer.” She glanced around the restaurant, eyeing in particular the cases for pies and desserts. On the wall near the blackboard covered with the daily specials was an area where customers hung their business cards and announcements on an old-fashioned corkboard. “Why don’t you put up a notice?” She
gestured toward the corkboard. “People like me could use the diversion.”

  “I’ll do that.” What could I use? Lord knows Lenny didn’t have his own business cards.

  “Don’t worry, honey.” Andrew patted my arm. “I’ll handle it. If I know you, and I have to admit I don’t know you well, you already have so much stuff on your plate that things are falling off the side.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Breakfast or lunch menu?” Suellen asked.

  “Both?”

  She handed the menus to Andrew, who led me toward a table that faced the street with a perfect view of the Chisos Mountains—hills, by any other states’ standards—and the adobe-style railroad depot.

  “So, what’s the special occasion?” Andrew moved each item on the table until it was in perfect alignment.

  “Keep your eye out for an escapee from LA by the name of Ken Price. He should be here any minute.”

  This time Andrew nearly hugged himself with excitement. “LA? Here?” He glanced around, but the elderly ladies in the far corner near the antique display of quilts and doilies were lost in conversation. He slid into a chair and leaned in close. “Who is it? And why are they here?”

  I smiled at his enthusiasm. Like I said, we’re a small town, and strangers are like exotic animals in the zoo, which would make a man from LA on a level with a space alien. He was Jeff Clark’s agent. And he’s meeting me this morning to give me a brief interview.”

  He slapped the table with a hand whose nails were bitten down, neatly but vindictively. “Enough said.” He rose and took an extra few seconds to arrange his chair perfectly beneath the table once again. “Don’t let me make a fool of myself.”

  “I won’t.”

  Back in work mode, his face once again took on the aloof expression of a Parisian waiter. “Coffee, madam?”

  “Thanks.”

  While I waited, I watched the tourists on the street. It wasn’t difficult to pick them out, as they mostly wore cruise wear or matching shorts sets or clothing that was obviously new and not worn by the modest, let’s-get-work-done citizens of Broken Boot. After fifteen minutes of mental gymnastics, I ordered a Western breakfast quiche filled with ham, peppers, onions, and tomato. After forty-five minutes, I began to fear he felt no compunction at leaving me to my own devices. And after an hour of waiting, I decided he was a cretin frightfully prejudiced against journalists and ordinary people from small towns.