The Good, the Bad and the Guacamole Page 6

  “You’re going to sit on this until Sunday?” I squared my shoulders, and Lenny sat up. “Someone’s going to write this for the bigger papers. We need to get it out there first.”

  “Write it in an hour, e-mail it, and text me. We’ll talk after I’ve read it.”

  “Yes, sir, boss.” I would whip up the perfect article, one he couldn’t reject, show up at his office, and stare him down until he gave it the green light.

  * * *

  I hurried through the kitchen, mooched a taco with savory carnitas, onions, and jalapeños, and bolted upstairs. Before my eyes, something odd was taking place. Aunt Linda and Senora Mari sat elbow to elbow on the love seat, discussing the recipes in one of my old Southern Living magazines. “Is Patti still sleeping?” I whispered, before taking the last bite of corn tortilla, dripping with flavorful yumminess. If tamales aren’t around, tacos are a close second when it comes to comfort food.

  “Ssh. Yes, of course. Why else would we be sitting here together?” She rolled her eyes as she waved her hand back and forth between the two of them.

  Aunt Linda lifted her head from the back of the love seat.

  “Now that you’re here,” my aunt pushed to her feet, “I’ll run to the bank.” Slowly she moved her hips from one side to the other, as if practicing her hula. Then she reached for the ceiling and leaned back. “Ah, that’s better.” She plucked a water bottle from the door of the fridge, waved it at me, and hurried down the stairs.

  Senora Mari waited until the last of Aunt Linda’s footfalls faded away. “I had so many dreams last night.”

  She wanted me to say, What did you dream about? However, I knew her too well to give her the satisfaction so soon. I would bet my firstborn child that she was going to say that her dreams were about Jeff’s murder.

  I patted her knee. “I hope they were all good ones.”

  “Half good, half not so good.” She frowned.

  I tried hard to wait her out, but if I didn’t allow her to tell me about her dream, I’d lose even more of my writing time.

  “Abuela,” I said softly. “The Bugle is waiting on me to write about the murder. Me. The former reporter from Austin. Hit the high points, and then we’ll discuss it at length when I’ve made my deadline.”

  “The digest?”

  “Sí.”

  “Okay. The dream I remember the most was filled with music.”

  “You heard music,” I asked, rolling my eyes on the inside.

  “Yes, country music. Like what they play at Two Boots.”

  “And?”

  She frowned. “And that singer was there. You know the one?”

  I shook my head, more than ready to write my story. “Was he handsome?”

  “Yes, and sad.”

  “Sad?” I stood and retrieved my laptop from the dining table.

  “Yes, big brown eyes and dark hair.”

  True, Jeff Clark did have both. I opened my laptop and typed in my password. “What did he want?”

  “He wanted me to tell you something.” She said this with a straight face, but, then again, her face was usually solemn, devoid of a smile.

  I opened a new document and typed the header. I looked up and found her staring at me with a hard, narrow gaze. “Are you listening?”

  I nodded.

  She shot a frown at the laptop and then decided to continue. “He says you know who killed him.”

  This time I frowned. “I know who killed him? But I barely knew him.”

  She shrugged and stood. Straightening her dress, she nodded. “I know, but he still says you know who it is, and it’s up to you to find them and bring them to justice.”

  “Them?”

  She shook her head and walked out the door.

  I hurried after her, my laptop cradled in one arm. “Does that mean ‘more than one’ or that you don’t know if the killer’s a man or a woman?”

  She ignored me—she loves a cliffhanger—and continued on downstairs.

  I walked over to the bedroom doorway and peeked in. Patti lay still as a corpse, with her hands folded on her chest. Too still.

  “You can open your eyes now.”

  Her eyes popped open. “How’d you know?”

  “Who could sleep through all that?”

  She sat up and tied her black hair into a knot. “Your family can be a bit much, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

  “I’m right there with you, sister.”

  She brought her knees up to her chest and placed her chin on her knees.

  “Are you going to be okay?”

  She blinked rapidly and looked away. “Oh yeah.” She attempted to chuckle. “Good thing I didn’t like the guy.”

  “Right,” I said a bit too enthusiastically. “But still?”

  “He wasn’t a complete loser.” She wiped the corner of her eye.

  I reached over and touched the sheet where it rested on her leg. “Not if he wanted to be with you. How could he be?”

  “I keep seeing him on the stretcher in my front yard.” She focused down, still not meeting my eyes. “I keep remembering that stupid guacamole on the side of his mouth.” Something resembling laughter erupted from her belly, but as soon as it faded away, her eyes filled with tears.

  “Ssh.” I patted her leg.

  “The sheriff’s department isn’t going to let me back into my own home, are they?”

  “Not yet. Believe me, you don’t want to see any trace of what I saw on your coffee table.”

  With a grimace, she pulled my mother’s wedding-ring quilt up to her neck. “Nothing personal, but your bed sucks.”

  “My bed is ergonomically correct.” I slapped the futon I’d schlepped home from Austin, which lay upon an old pine platform bed.

  “I want my Serta, my kitchen, my clothes, and my cat.”

  How could I spell it out without upsetting her? “Soon, hon.” I couldn’t . . . not yet.

  “Argh,” she groaned, fisting her hands in the sheet.

  “Your whole house is a crime scene. And even if it wasn’t, it would certainly require a thorough cleaning.”

  Her eyes grew wide as tostadas. “Who’s going to clean? Me? You?”

  “Why not?”

  She raised an eyebrow.

  “I’m going to find an untapped well of cleaning skills—just you wait and see.”

  She burst into silent tears, her shoulders shaking and tears streaming down her face.

  “What?”

  “Things have taken a nasty turn when you offer to clean anything.”

  I laughed. After giving me a shocked look, she chuckled in spite of herself.

  Joining her on the bed, I nudged her with my elbow until she scooted over. “Don’t worry. You’re staying here with me as long as you want.”

  She lifted her head and glanced around. The tears sprang forth again.

  “What’s wrong with this place? Lenny doesn’t snore.” I tried for a joke, but I’m terrible at making jokes.

  She sniffed and wiped her eyes with her T-shirt. “I hate this bed.”

  Shock had set in. “Okay, well, all right. You can sleep on the love seat if you want.”

  She cocked her head to one side. “And hang my feet over the armrest, I guess?”

  “Or an air mattress on the floor?”

  “Hmm. That might work . . . if it stays inflated.” Her eyes searched for Lenny, finding him sprawled across the bedroom doorway. He caught her eye and stood, wagging his tail like a single windshield wiper on high. She pointed to him. “Won’t he pop it with his toenails?”

  Probably. “We’ll teach him not to.”

  She gave me a dubious stare.

  I grinned and gave a short whistle.

  Lenny’s ears pricked and his silky tail wagged even faster. He smiled with
his bright button eyes and twirled in anticipation—the better to show off his beautiful black-and-white markings.

  I patted the bed, and up he jumped.

  After a moment, Patti lowered her legs and allowed Lenny to jump into her lap. He proceeded to lick her chin, obviously having decided that her chin was most in need of comfort.

  “Ugh, dog germs.” But she didn’t move him out of the way or wipe away the spittle. She hugged him close with his head over her shoulder like an infant. “Thanks, sweetie.”

  Now to find myself an air mattress and write my article. I checked my watch. “Patti, I’m sorry, but I told Majors at the Bugle that I’d write this piece on Jeff in the next few minutes.” Forty minutes was all that remained.

  “It’s okay. Right, Lenny?”

  “Yip,” he agreed, backing out of her arms to sit in her lap and lick her leg.

  I gave her a quick hug and headed back to my laptop and one of the most potentially important pieces I’d ever written. It came easily, like water through a sieve. My fingers flew across the keyboard, refusing to edit my words the first time through.

  I dialed Deputy Lightfoot with fifteen minutes to go.

  “Yes, ma’am?” His response was right on the edge of brusque. I had obviously interrupted if the somber officer was anything but unwaveringly polite.

  I was actually surprised he’d taken my call. “I need a quote for the paper. How does the investigation stand?”

  He sighed. “All questions from the press must be sent in writing to Sheriff Mack Wallace, care of the Big Bend County Sheriff’s Office.”

  “I got it, but I have fifteen minutes—make that fourteen—before I miss my deadline. Give me something.”

  “Not if you’re a reporter. Wallace handles all interactions with the press.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since you found a second dead body within six months.”

  Was it my fault that I made a habit of being in the wrong place at the wrong time? “Come on. I’m not full-time press, merely a wannabe reporter. And I’m never going to be anything else unless I submit this story within the next thirteen minutes. Dad gum it, haven’t I earned a few brownie points for finding those dead bodies for you?” I was paddling upstream with a straw, and I knew it.

  There was a pregnant pause, and then he began to speak in a low voice. “The medical examiner declared Jeff Clark dead.”

  “I should hope so.”

  “Should I continue?”

  “My bad.”

  “The Big Bend County Sheriff’s Office is working the crime scene, compiling forensic evidence. More information is forthcoming.”

  If I weren’t a law-abiding citizen, I’d . . . “Can we agree it was murder?”

  “No.”

  “Quint Lightfoot, cut the shenanigans. He didn’t hit himself over the head with a Fender.”

  “We haven’t ruled that out.”

  “Come on. Straight into the guacamole—really?”

  “We are not releasing any information at this time that points to murder. And you’d better not hint there’s more that does, unless you want me to have a private discussion with your new boss.”

  I started to argue, but thought better about it. I needed to stay on my editor’s good side—if I could figure out where it was hiding.

  Quickly I moved the phone to my other ear, the better to type. “So, you’re trying to give the murderer a sense of security?”

  “Something like that.”

  On the screen in front of me was a whopping four sentences. “That’s not much. Are you positive there’s not anything else you can tell me?”

  “There is one thing.” I could hear him smile. “Wallace left Galveston this morning.”

  “Thanks!” That was a factoid my editor might appreciate. “That’s too bad.” I blanched. “Uh, I meant that you’re lead on this case right now, aren’t you?”

  “For the moment.”

  “This is a rare opportunity for you to gain some experience. . . . Oh, heck. You know what I mean.”

  He made a grunting sound that almost passed for a laugh . . . from a dried-up mesquite tree. I was finding if I paid close attention, the stoic deputy actually had a sense of humor.

  “Okay, well, uh, thanks. I appreciate the info. Gotta go or I’ll miss my deadline.”

  “Wouldn’t want that to happen.”

  Add sarcasm to his list of hidden traits. Maybe he’d brandished sarcastic comments before and I’d missed it. Hmm. I’d pay closer attention in the future. Sarcasm was almost humor, and humor was a quality in a man I’d sorely been missing in my past relationships.

  I put the phone down and finished the article by tightening my prose and removing the hints of emotion I’d added subconsciously in my word choices. I’d write an emotional story about finding Jeff’s body, but I’d pen that piece as Lenny. His blog was the perfect place to let it all hang out—at least all that wouldn’t get me sued for libel.

  After completing the requisite word count, I e-mailed the article to Majors with an explanation that I would gather some quotes from Jeff’s bandmates to include in a follow-up piece. I checked on Aunt Linda and the staff on the evening shift and snagged Patti a Laredo special: two crunchy beef tacos, a cheese enchilada, rice, and refried beans.

  “I’m not hungry.” She waved her arm toward the yellow Formica table.

  “Just try a bite. It’ll give you a new outlook.”

  With a groan, she covered her head with the lovely yellow wedding-ring quilt that my mother had made for me, with the help of Aunt Linda, when I was a baby. One of its multicolored rings rested around her head like a halo. From beneath the cotton and batting she muttered, “Not hungry.” She turned away toward the windows that overlooked Main Street. “Go away.”

  I leapt onto the bed, barely missing her torso, found the top of her head through the quilt, and planted a big smack on it. “Enjoy your wallowing, Perez.” I climbed off, grabbed my keys, and lightly tossed Lenny on top of her. “Because when you’re through, we’re going to find whoever did this and make them pay—for a new Fender.”

  As I walked away, I heard her chuckle.

  Chapter 5

  In spite of a smattering of Friday-afternoon tourists on Main Street, Two Boots was taking a siesta until the late afternoon. Standing out from the gravel parking lot like a circus tent in the desert was a luxury bus bearing Jeff Clark Band on the side in airbrushed letters that would have made the King of Rock and Roll proud. Next to it was parked a white commercial truck. This was not a huge tour of buses and trucks, but enough to blast the eardrums of those lucky enough to hear the band. Looking back, I realized his look, his voice, and even his whole band had been a notch above Ty Honeycutt’s local musicians. Perhaps he was more of an up-and-comer than I thought.

  I slipped in the side door and found Uncle Eddie in the kitchen of Two Boots, fixing himself a club sandwich.

  “Want one?” He stuffed the first bite in his mouth and chomped like a man on a mission.

  “No, thanks.” I found a glass-bottled Dr Pepper in the cooler and forced off the lid with the bottle opener attached to the side of the counter. The first sip of carbonation and twenty-three fruit flavors hit the back of my throat like a drug. I sighed. “Where’s Jeff’s band?”

  Uncle Eddie swallowed and wiped his mouth. “I’d stay clear of those cats. They’re not playing nice today.”

  “They’ve had a big shock.”

  “I guess.” He chomped again, screwing up his face in thought. “Doesn’t mean they have to be downright mean and ornery.”

  A familiar tantalizing aroma captured my attention. I found the cooked bacon in the fridge along with some turkey slices and a kosher dill. “Ornery how?”

  “I asked them if they’d play tonight and tomorrow night, and right nicely too.” He tore off a p
aper towel from a nearby roll with his left hand and wiped his mouth, “They said I was being a jerk.”

  I could see his side, as it was my side too. We needed to eat, pay the mortgages on a house and two businesses, and meet payroll. “Did you explain?”

  “I tried.” He continued to chew with such a downcast expression, you’d have thought he was eating the last club sandwich on earth. “Something about needing to contact their agent.”

  “And did they?”

  With a worrisome clanking sound, the camouflage duck clock on the opposite wall began to quack the hour. “I knocked on the bus door fifteen minutes ago.” Instead of continuing, he finished off his sandwich with a huge bite that made him look like a puffer fish.

  You would think by now, I’d be used to my uncle’s need to stretch a story to its very limit, but, in fact, I was imagining myself opening his mouth and yanking out the details like the end of a thread caught in a tangled ball of yarn.

  “No one answered.” With a contented sigh, he threw his napkin into the trash and picked up his clipboard and the list of grocery items needed for the day.

  “Maybe they don’t know anything yet.”

  He dug his wire-framed reading glasses from his denim shirt pocket. “I told them they could play a tribute to Jeff Clark and arrange it any way they wanted.”

  “Hmm.” I delayed my response by taking a large bite of my own breadless bacon and turkey sandwich, followed by a chunk of dill pickle.

  As if his glasses interfered with his speech, Uncle Eddie raised his readers. “Too soon?”

  I wiped my mouth with a brown paper towel from above the industrial sink. “Sounds like it.”

  “Dang it. I didn’t mean to be such a callous clodhopper.” A deep furrow appeared across his wide forehead.

  “You’re okay.” I gave him a quick one-armed hug. “It was an honest mistake. What about Ty?” He was many things: gambler, womanizer, and nephew of the dearly departed Dixie, but he was also a good musician.

  “Oh, sure. That polecat finally agreed to play until the cows come home, as long as I agreed to give him an open bar tab. Can you believe he made me wait fifteen minutes before giving me an answer?”