The Good, the Bad and the Guacamole Page 3

  I threw an arm around her. “Hey, don’t get your knickers in a twist. I’ll take him some tacos. You stay here and play hard to get.”

  She grabbed a broom and started sweeping invisible dust bunnies from the floor. “I can’t just close up whenever he gets a wild hair up his nose.”

  Sure she could. She was the sole owner and proprietor since her parents had left her the Feed and Supply. But I wasn’t going to argue.

  “Stay here and mind your fencing. Lenny and I will take Mr. Sexy some sustenance, and thus win a hasty but fabulous interview.”

  Lenny ended my attempt at witty banter by bolting for the entrance like a greyhound on speed. As I opened the door, I spied the source of his alarm. A desert cottontail was bounding toward a stand of purple fountain grass for all he was worth.

  “Yip, yip, yip.” He nearly yanked me into the street before I could lock his leash.

  “You’ll get him next time.” I bent down and rubbed my hand along his trembling back. “Don’t you worry yourself, son.” Jeff Clark was waiting to give the interview of his life, whether he knew it or not.

  * * *

  After a brisk twenty-minute walk, Lenny and I arrived at Patti’s stucco, ranch-style home. The last time I’d visited was the day of her mother’s funeral. The house had overflowed with folks offering tearful hugs along with platters of cold cuts, cheesy casseroles, pecan pies, and fried chicken from Wagoner’s Thriftway. A dwarf pine and a Texas mountain laurel embraced the short sidewalk that divided her modest lawn. I was glad to see she’d started to make the place her own by adding a red tin roof.

  “Yip,” Lenny said, breaking into my memories.

  “Crud!” I remembered the tacos too late. This was not the way to start out with Mr. Sexy. If food was indeed the way to that man’s heart, I would be turned away at the door like an overzealous Boy Scout peddling popcorn.

  A gray sedan was headed down the street. It veered into one of the trash cans that littered the end of the driveways, where the sanitation company had left them. The can fell to its side and rolled into a mailbox, causing the metal mailbox door to fall open. I tried my best to pierce the driver with an icy stare, but as I couldn’t see him due to the glare, I doubt it made a dent in his driving pride. If I knew the neighborhood, it was probably an elderly driver out for a romp to the pharmacy to get a new pair of eyeglasses.

  Once I rang Patti’s front doorbell, I swore to wait sixty seconds. But, as usual, my patience slipped. I rapped on the decorative glass pane, winced, and repeated.

  No answer. Jeff was gone . . . or in the shower . . . or sleeping it off.

  Exasperated for no good reason, Lenny and I proceeded to check out the driveway hidden behind a grizzled live oak on the side of the house. It was empty as a church parking lot on a Friday night. “Lenny,” I said, scooping him up with one arm. “Did Patti say she drove her jeep or that he followed her home?”

  Lenny tilted his head to one side, his tail swinging madly. “Yip.”

  “That’s what I thought. I don’t think she said one way or the other.”

  I called my Goth friend. “What’s he driving?”

  “Squat. He left his truck at Two Boots last night.”

  “Text him again. Sleeping Beauty’s not answering.”

  I dropped Lenny’s leash and watched him dart from one azalea to another. First he dug around the trunk, and then he marked Patti’s territory as his own. Norman, Patti’s Snowshoe cat, was going to have an aneurysm.

  “He’s not answering, Jos. Maybe he caught a ride from someone.”

  “Who would he call?”

  “Gosh, I don’t know,” she snapped. “He said he would wait for me to take him back to the dance hall this evening.”

  My inner bullcrap meter was going off. Why would he wait around all day?

  Two hours left until my deadline. Some people miss deadlines, but I couldn’t afford it. I was new to the Bugle and it had taken way too long to have an article picked up, let alone a column. After complaining that my first few stories weren’t folksy enough, they’d eagerly accepted my story about how I’d solved Dixie Honeycutt’s murder and barely escaped with my life.

  “Where’s your key?” I asked.

  “In my hand.”

  “Not that one, smarty pants.” Patti always kept her spare key in an obvious place, if I could only remember. I lifted the potted fern and found nothing but a few roly-polies. With a stick from the yard, I foraged in the dirt of the only other plant on the porch, a potted and decidedly decrepit barrel cactus.

  “You’re trying to find my spare key, aren’t you?”

  “Hm.”

  “Cut it out. Someone’s going to see you, break in, and steal my Bose.”

  As Lenny dug another latrine under a light pink azalea, I fumbled under some grocery flyers. When Patti’s parents were alive, there was always a key in the mailbox that hung to the side of the front door.

  “Got it!”

  “Jos, don’t go in there. You’ll be invading his privacy.”

  “It’s not his house.” I whistled for Lenny. “It’s my butt on the line for this deadline.” I gathered my canine security blanket close to my side, turned the key in the lock, and stepped inside.

  “Don’t surprise him, whatever you do,” Patti said in a panic, which made me wonder what kind of surprise she thought might be in store.

  “Jeff,” I called in a lilting way.

  No answer. From the entranceway, I could make out the silhouette of a sofa, chair, and love seat in the dim living room. Straight ahead, the clock on the microwave invited me in for a look-see. I started for the kitchen, but Lenny refused to budge.

  “Chill, Lenster. Norman’s going to run and hide like a big ’fraidy cat.” In the sink, I found a haphazard pile of plates, bowls, and silverware and a skillet coated with grease. The whole mess smelled like fajitas, and, sure enough, I discovered bits of chicken stuck to the pan. The coffeepot was on. Two coffee mugs emblazoned with skulls and the word poison rested in the sink.

  “Tsk, tsk.”

  “What?” Patti snapped.

  “I thought you were a neat freak.”

  Lenny whined and pulled on his leash. “Shh, don’t be such a chicken,” I said sotto voce. “That cat’s too chubby to catch the likes of you.” I turned and smiled. There on the refrigerator was a picture of Patti and her parents circa 1995, before cancer had thinned their cheeks, under a magnet shaped like a holly wreath.

  “You tell Lenny to let Norman be.” Patti’s voice was hard to hear over the phone.

  “Can I help it if my Chi is friendlier than your grumpy-tailed cat?”

  As I passed through the living room, I followed the rays of sunlight that peered through the plantation shutters at the end of the hall.

  “Oh, fantastic,” Patti whispered. “A customer. You call me right back.”

  “Yes, ma’am, boss.”

  I approached the bedroom door. “Oh, Jeff, are you still sleeping?” I called, again using an obnoxious singsong.

  Lenny began to whine. “Jeff? It’s me, Josie.” No answer. “Patti’s friend. We met last night?”

  I pressed my ear to the door. I could make out a droning sound. Snoring?

  “Sounds like he’s awake.”

  “Yip, yip.”

  “Don’t worry, cowboy. I won’t look.” I opened the door a few inches, the better to be heard.

  Now that the door was open, I recognized the droning sound as an oscillating fan. “Jeff, this is Josie Callahan,” I said in a sunny voice. “I’m here for an interview your publicist arranged for this morning.” The bed frame rattled and I blanched. “Uh, I’ll wait on the couch while you get dressed. How’s that?”

  Lenny disappeared around the door.

  “Hey, get back here.” Keeping my eyes down, I pulled him back.
/>   “Yip, yip, yip,” Lenny complained.

  “Sorry about that,” I said through the crack in the door. “We’re in the living room.” The only answer was the rattle of the bed frame.

  As my eyes adjusted to the dim light in the living room, I bent down and scooped Lenny into my arms. “You are a naughty boy.” I wanted to laugh. “Was he naked?”

  “Yip.”

  Something scraped the floor behind us and Lenny jumped from my arms. Norman sprang for the kitchen while Lenny flew after him like a Chihuahua from hell. “Yip, yip.”

  This escapade would definitely make Lenny’s next blog. Of course, he’d have to share what it was like to meet Jeff Clark. He could also introduce a lively discussion on the pros and cons of cats, which should start a flurry of never-ending comments.

  From the kitchen, the caterwauling began.

  I crossed the living room, hoping to head off Lenny and Norman in the dining room before the oak flooring was carpeted with fur. As I drew closer to the shades, I realized there was a mound of blankets on the couch. I froze, squinting—as if that would prevent me from seeing any uncovered body parts. If he were naked, my retinas were about to be scorched.

  “Jeff?” I whispered.

  Norman and Lenny continued to hiss and yip in the other room.

  This was stupid. I forced my shoulders to relax from around my ears. I was stupid for charging in here like some paparazzi wannabe. “Jeff?” I raised my voice and stepped closer. My foot slid on something wet, and I was down.

  I reached behind me and discovered my jeans were wet and cold. I drew a small amount of whatever it was onto my finger and sniffed. Salsa never smelled so good. I glanced at the coffee table before me, expecting to find the remnants of a late night snack.

  Instead, I found Jeff Clark facedown in what appeared to be a bowl of guacamole, buck naked.

  Chapter 3

  I called 911, my heart beating like a jackhammer in my chest. I was afraid if they didn’t hurry, they’d need to bring a second stretcher. I blurted out all the pertinent information and the impertinent, like the fact the body was naked from the hips up. I ended the call before the operator could insist I check Jeff’s body for signs of life. Been there, done that, never want to do it again in this lifetime. When the operator called me back, insisting that I try to revive him—same as last time—a wave of guilt washed over me. I’d doubted his integrity and now he was dead. How could I not try to save his life? Less than a minute later, we both realized the truth: Jeff Clark was on a road trip to the pearly gates.

  Same as when Dixie died, I found myself waiting outside for an ambulance. “I’m glad you’re here, Lenster.”

  He turned to me, lifting his ears to catch my voice. “Yip,” he said, and proceeded to race around the yard, chase a sparrow, and sniff the yucca plants.

  I’d called the ambulance, but I hadn’t called my best friend. I was a coward, plain and true. After about ten minutes of shocked silence, I began to feel guilty. “You think I should call her, right?”

  Lenny ignored me, choosing instead to focus his attention on a squirrel perched on the neighbor’s fence. “Yip,” he said in greeting.

  The squirrel merely squeaked a warning.

  I closed my eyes. “Dear Lord, if someone else can deliver this news to Patti better than me, feel free to drop this call.” I dialed her number.

  “Jos, what’s up? I got a customer.”

  Guess I had my answer. “Hey, girl, um . . .”

  There was a long pause. “What’s happened?” Her good humor evaporated faster than sweat on a cactus. “I told you he was good for nothing. What’d he do? Vomit all over the living room floor? Lock himself out of the house without any clothes on and borrow Bessie Trumble’s Vespa without asking?”

  If push came to shove, I’d tell her over the phone. But I couldn’t bear the thought of her driving like a maniac and putting herself and the community in harm’s way. I could have said many things, including the fact that I found him facedown in a bowl of guacamole, wearing nothing but his Wrangler boots, but it could wait. “You sure you got only one customer in the store?”

  “What . . . does . . . it . . . matter?” she demanded, spacing out her words as if trying to wring the answer from my lips.

  “Count them.”

  “One! There’s only one.”

  “Close the store.” I infused my words with all the gravitas I could locate in my curvy body.

  “Jos—”

  “I’ll tell you if you promise me you won’t drive off the road.”

  “Geez,” she sighed. “You’re so dramatic.”

  “Cross your heart.” I was dragging my heels, but how could I tell her the man she’d opened her heart to was dead?

  “Whatever. Where are you?” Worry crept into her voice. “Are you okay?”

  Tears threatened to choke down my words. “Close the store and come home. Now.”

  I disconnected. Should I meet her on the way? How could I leave the scene before the deputies arrived? Before I could make a decision with my addled brain, Deputy Quint Lightfoot parked his cruiser along the road.

  With his usual reserve, the long-haired deputy moseyed over to where I stood and gave me a brief nod. His dark eyes studied me long and hard from under coal black brows. Slowly he lifted his right hand to rest on the holster of his gun.

  “Who was he?” His gaze left my face and narrowed on the doorway behind me.

  “Jeff Clark. His band’s playing Two Boots this weekend.”

  “Yip, yip,” Lenny barked, encircling the deputy with his leash.

  Lightfoot was six feet minus an inch or so, but graceful with it. He bent down and offered the Chi his hand to sniff. As soon as Lenny licked his hand, he gathered him in his arms and handed him over to me.

  “Barnes will be here in a minute to question you. Once he’s finished you two need to hit the road.”

  “Hold up just a minute. Patti’s on her way.” That’s when I remembered that Lightfoot and my Goth friend had gone to a gallery showing of her photography in El Paso together.

  I could see the wheels turning as he considered the pros and cons of my remaining. Would I be more suited to comforting Patti after she found out that her past, and possible future, was dead?

  “Where is he?”

  Unbidden, an image of the dead singer draped across Patti’s oval-shaped coffee table infused my brain. I jabbed a shaky finger toward the porch. “He’s in the living room. You can’t miss him.”

  Lightfoot drew closer. “What makes you so sure he’s dead?” He removed his hat, pulled a few errant strands of hair behind his ears, and replaced his standard-issue cowboy hat. He held my gaze, not defiant, but ready to take my word.

  “That, or he’s taken up acting on the side.” There was no need to describe the color of his skin, the smell of death.

  “Accidents happen.”

  I fought a strong desire to run away. “You’re right. Maybe he decided to beat himself to death with his own guitar.” I threw my palm onto my forehead in mock consternation. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

  He studied me for a moment, the strong, silent wheels of his mind turning too slowly for my taste.

  “Please,” I said through gritted teeth. “Patti needs to hear this in person.”

  With a squeal of the siren, another deputy cruiser parked across the street.

  Lightfoot gave a quick nod. “Wait here.” He crossed to an auburn-haired deputy whose slight frame and freckles made him appear all of ten. They spoke in low voices and then approached.

  Lenny tried to stop the trembling that had overtaken me by licking my arm.

  “Ssh. It’s okay, Lenster.”

  “Barnes will take your statement while I go inside. The ambulance should be here any minute.”

  “Thanks,” I whispered, a
nd began to tear up. I shook my head to clear my emotions away. “Don’t mind me. It’s shock.”

  “Got it.” Lightfoot pushed his cowboy hat back from his forehead and lifted the corners of his mouth in the semblance of a smile. “See you soon.” After exchanging a stoic nod with Barnes, he laid his hand on his holster and opened the door.

  I answered Barnes’s questions with what little actual knowledge I had. Unfortunately, I had to admit to the young, officious deputy—while Lenny relieved himself on a telephone pole—that I’d contaminated the crime scene by slipping in the salsa on the living-room floor. As he began to run out of questions to hurl at my head, I heard the one o’clock Amtrak train approaching the tracks at the end of the street. In the distance, Patti’s green jeep raced toward the railroad crossing just as the gates started to lower.

  “Don’t do it,” I whispered.

  From my vantage point, the train could’ve been a mile or a hundred yards away. My heart jumped into my throat. Patti flew the jeep over the tracks with nothing to spare. Even from where I stood, I heard the metallic scraping sound as a layer of green paint was lost to the crossing arm. She barreled down the street toward home, through a neighborhood that had never known a serious crime, except for the time Mrs. Trumble’s son was picked up for skipping thirteen days of school ten years earlier. I dug my fingernails into my thighs and prayed no car, pedestrian, or three-legged dog would venture into her perilous path.

  Neatly taking out her blue recycle bin at the curb, Patti screeched to a halt in the yard and cut the engine. Her hands gripped the wheel as if glued to the leather cover.

  Not wanting to spook her any further, I took my time as I approached.

  She rolled down the window, keeping her eyes locked on the front door of the house. “You can tell me. I can take it.”

  “Jeff . . .” I couldn’t speak for the large knot in my throat. Even though I thought she had lousy taste in men, she’d pinned more than a few hopes on the guy.

  Like a ventriloquist’s dummy, her head turned and her body followed a moment later. “Just spill it, for God’s sake.”