The Good, the Bad and the Guacamole Read online

  I burst out laughing. When I glanced over my shoulder to see what kind of drinks they were imbibing, I discovered at least a six-pack of them watching me. A couple of them nodded and smiled. A gray-haired man raised a glass. I smiled at no one in particular and turned away.

  “How long they been sitting there?”

  “Too long. An hour, I guess.”

  “They drinkin’ heavy?”

  “Don’t light any matches within a six-foot radius.”

  I gnawed at my bottom lip. I needed just one or two measly little comments, but Lord, if I didn’t feel like a grave robber.

  “I know that look.”

  “Huh?”

  “Yeah, the one where you want to do something but you’re not sure it’s the right thing to do.”

  “I need a comment for my story.”

  My aunt studied my face while she continued to dry the bar glasses in front of her. “You need one or you want one? There’s a difference.”

  “If I want to cover Jeff Clark’s death for the Bugle, I need it.” I grabbed a lemon from the bar setup with the metal tongs. “I didn’t realize I’d feel as low as a gopher hole when it came time to actually interviewing people.”

  After a moment, Aunt Linda threw her drying towel over her shoulder. “I see your dilemma, but I wouldn’t trust those guys not to tip over a table or cuss you out if you were to traipse over there and butt into their business.”

  I glanced over my shoulder and discovered they’d gone back to their conversation, all but the older gentleman. He raised his empty beer glass and shook it at me.

  What an idiot. I thought he’d raised his glass before as a gesture of appreciation, but he merely needed a refill on his beer.

  “Uncle Eddie needs them to play tonight,” I said.

  “Good luck with that. They’re so drunk, they couldn’t float down the Rio Grande on an inner tube.”

  “Do you think they’ve put two and two together?” I asked.

  “What? Milagro and Two Boots? I don’t think so.”

  “How about we try to win them over with kindness? Give them some entrees on the house.”

  She pursed her lips and filled a beer glass with Shiner, most likely adding the loss of income in her head. “That might sober them up.” She handed me the beer. “This is for the polite one in need of a refill.”

  “And then we hit them with the connection between Milagro and Two Boots.”

  Aunt Linda retrieved the menus from the hostess station in the other room and handed them to me. “Go for it, Jo Jo. They say the way to a man’s heart—”

  I continued. “Is through his stomach.” We shared a grin and said in unison, “Unless he’s a vegetarian.”

  Loaded for bear, or in this case band, I sashayed over to the table, ignoring the fact my sashaying skills compared to those of a mule. “Howdy, fellas.”

  “Howdy yourself, darlin’.”

  I neatly avoided a pat on the seat of my Wranglers from the dark-haired baboon seated at the head of the table. “We heard the concert last night over at Two Boots. You guys were awesome.” I gestured to Aunt Linda, who waved and gave them a wide grin.

  “You bet your boots we were,” said a buck-toothed teenager, maybe all of eighteen. His eyes welled with unshed tears. “I mean, Jeff was awesome. He was the star.”

  I dropped my forced smile. “I’m awfully sorry to hear. I can’t imagine how you’re feeling right now.”

  “Ah, gee, darlin’. Why didn’t you tell me you wanted to give me some sweet Southern TLC?” The baboon shoved back his chair. “Let’s go.”

  I moved quickly to the other end of the table even as goose bumps rippled down my arms. “You’re a funny one.” It wasn’t often I handled customers this pushy. I handed the gray-haired man his beer. “You must be Dustin.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” When he smiled, my nerves evaporated. His deep crow’s feet made him appear kindhearted, like the protective older brother I’d never had.

  “Sit your butt down, Calvin.” A wiry baboon seated next to the would-be lothario jerked him into his chair.

  After a good ten seconds of fierce stare down, the passionate primate pulled up to the table and took a swig of his beer.

  “I would, however, like to offer all of you whatever you want to eat on the house on behalf of my family.”

  “Your family owns this place?” The teen’s eyes grew wide.

  “Yep. That’s my aunt, Linda Martinez, over there at the bar.”

  Her smile was wearing thin.

  “Cool.”

  “Anything you want to eat is on us.”

  The gray-haired gentleman raised his voice. “That’s mighty kind of you. We appreciate it. Don’t we, boys?”

  A few bothered to answer in the affirmative while the remainder nodded their heads. After a few minutes of perusing, they requested several orders of appetizers, tamales, fajitas, and Pancho Villa Platters, which included chiles rellenos, enchiladas, and flautas, along with guacamole and queso.

  As I passed the bar on the way to place their order, Aunt Linda murmured, “You could have set a limit, you know?”

  “Not if we want them to play both tonight and tomorrow night.”

  “Eddie’ll be lucky if they don’t eat themselves into a coma.”

  It was almost eight o’clock when we cleared away the last of the dinner dishes. The baboons had settled to quiet talk.

  “Is there anything I can get you before you head back to Two Boots?” I asked, praying they’d say no.

  “Nah, thank you, darlin’,” the romantic baboon said in a mellow and more sober voice.

  “Who says we’re heading back to that lousy joint?” The eighteen-year-old jeered with a look up and down the table for support.

  I jumped in. “I was hoping I’d get to hear you play again before you leave town.”

  Dustin stood. “We thank you for your hospitality. Mighty good eatin’.”

  The guys stood, three or four of them offering up sincere appreciation for our culinary donation.

  “If I’m not mistaken,” Dustin said, “your family owns both this restaurant and Two Boots dance hall.”

  In the dim light, I felt my cheeks heat at being caught. “Yes, sir, we do. We wanted you to know that our hearts go out to all of you and to Jeff Clark’s family.”

  “Who will want to listen to us without Jeff?” the teenager asked in disgust.

  Before I could argue, a redheaded man slapped him upside the head. “Boy, what do you mean?” He was the same angry dude who’d pushed past us the night of Jeff’s final concert. I hadn’t recognized him with half his face covered with his cowboy hat and the other half buried in his plate.

  “Ow.” The young man rubbed his head as he scooted out of reach.

  “I would, and I know the folks in this town would as well.” I met their eyes, one by one, attempting to convey my sincerity as best I could. “They’ll come out to remember Jeff, some out of curiosity, but most out of appreciation and respect. It’s going to be the best show it could possibly be under the circumstances.”

  The posse reached the door. “How do these fans know we’re playing tonight?” Romeo asked with suspicion.

  Busted. “Uncle Eddie never got around to taking you off the website.”

  Angry grumbling ensued.

  I swallowed. “Folks will be disappointed if you don’t show.”

  They didn’t respond loud enough for me to comprehend what they said, but I noticed some heads nodding and shoulders shrugging as the group headed out the door.

  The gray-haired man placed his hat across his heart. “Thanks again, for dinner. It was mighty generous of you.” His voice carried a quiet dignity. “I’m Dustin Akers.” He stuck out his hand. “And that’s Brady.”

  “Josie Callahan.” I shook his hand as firml
y as I’d been taught. “And you’re welcome.” I plunged in with both feet, plus the rest of me. “I hate to ask this, Mr. Akers—”

  “Dustin will do. I’m not that old.” And when he smiled, I believed him.

  “I wear a lot of hats around this town. One of them is reporter for the local paper.”

  A frown line appeared between his eyes.

  “It may be too soon—and you can say no—but would you consider giving me a brief statement for my story on Jeff Clark’s death?”

  “I would,” Brady said, perking up at a chance to earn a minute of fame.

  “Thanks,” I said, giving the boy a smile. I fished in my pocket for my phone and started the video, intending to use it for notes.

  “Am I gonna be on television?” he asked.

  “Nah, I just use it to help me quote you correctly.”

  His perkiness dissipated. “Okay, if you’re sure.”

  “What would you like to say about Jeff?” I asked softly.

  He looked up at the ceiling for a moment. “I want to thank Jeff, wherever he is, for giving me a chance.” He held my eye. “He didn’t hold things against me like he could have. He gave me a job.” His Adam’s apple bobbed. “Best job I could’ve ever imagined.” He dropped his gaze to the floor. I could tell he was struggling.

  “That’s perfect.”

  I looked to Dustin Akers and raised my phone toward his mouth to catch every word.

  “He wasn’t even one percent perfect, but, by God, that boy could sing.” He placed his cowboy hat on his head and sighed. “He’s probably writing songs for the angels to sing right about now.” His face fell. “Let’s go, Brady.”

  The teen gave a curt nod, once again macho and tough.

  Instead of following him out, Dustin looked me in the eyes too long for comfort. “Would you be interested in having a cup of coffee with me sometime?”

  It was the last thing I expected him to say, and I answered without a second thought. “That would be a bit of all right.”

  “You could give me the nickel tour before we hit the road?”

  “Make it a silver dollar and you’ve got a deal.”

  His roguish smile was a humdinger. “Yes, ma’am.”

  As I watched them go, I realized I was still smiling. He came across as a decent person, and whether he was forty or fifty, it didn’t matter. That smile of his made me want to know him better. And that in itself was a strange thing to feel.

  Chapter 6

  I spent another half hour helping Aunt Linda clean up before I turned out the lights and made my way upstairs.

  “Did your enchiladas convince Clark’s band to play tonight?” Patti asked.

  We were watching highlights from a Houston Aces soccer game on the late-evening news out of El Paso. Patti lay on the love seat with her head at the far end, her inky black hair dangling over the edge like a waterfall of Texas tea, her legs propped on the wall at a ninety-degree angle.

  Lenny perched on her lap, and, like a gentleman, he had allowed her to pet him repeatedly on his head for the past fifteen minutes.

  He turned his baleful gaze in my direction.

  “You’re a good boy,” I murmured. What a saint. I would have bitten her hand and hid under the bed long ago.

  “Yip, yip, yip,” he urged.

  I retrieved my laptop from the kitchen table and sprawled out in my faded purple recliner. “A capital idea, Lenster.”

  “Yip.”

  “What are you two on about?” Patti demanded, back to her usual strong delivery.

  “Time for Lenny to write his blog.”

  Patti lifted my writing buddy, the better to stare him in the face. “What will your post be this week—a rant or a rave?”

  I had planned to write a tribute to Jeff, but I had made the mistake of including Patti in the process. Brilliant.

  “Yip,” Lenny said.

  I nodded and cocked my head to one side as if contemplating the wisdom of his suggestion. “I don’t know.” I shot a glance in her direction, and then sighed in the longhaired Chi’s direction.

  “What?”

  In for a penny . . . “He wants to write a post with an apology.”

  Though completely unaware of my maneuvering, Lenny’s ears perked up. “Yip.”

  “You’re too kind.” I made a show of sending a covert glance Patti’s way. “It’s too soon, buddy.” With another shrug, I smiled sheepishly at Patti, as if I were embarrassed by Lenny’s suggestion.

  “Enough already,” she growled. “What does he want to write about?”

  “Yip, yip.”

  I nodded. “He wants to apologize to the community on my behalf.”

  “For what?”

  “Um, for the fact that since I returned to Broken Boot, I’ve had the misfortune of discovering two dead bodies.” I waited for a reaction to cross her face. And though I held my breath, her expression remained devoid of all emotion for at least twenty seconds.

  “What?” Her eyes met mine, daring me to mention her previous, well-deserved meltdown from only a few hours earlier.

  I lowered my eyes to my keyboard and started typing. “Nothing.”

  “Hey, buddy.” Patti tilted Lenny’s face up so she could look in his bright button eyes. “You okay with this setup?”

  “Yip.” He began licking her ankle with renewed commitment.

  My fingers were building speed as I filled the blank page with my initial ideas. “I usually write the first draft, and then he reads it and makes corrections.” I was hoping for at least a chuckle.

  Silence.

  Her gaze rested on the top of Lenny’s head. She switched from stroking his small, delicate head with two fingers to scratching behind his ear. This caused an immediate reaction in his wiry body. He stretched out on his back across her leg and began to kick his back right leg in time with the motion of her fingers behind his ear. She’d found his happy place.

  I typed quickly to get myself out of the predicament I’d placed myself in. Stupid of me to think she wouldn’t be affected by the blog, the mention of Jeff, the discussion of the murder. With anyone else, I would’ve been afraid that she’d judge me for being so callous. But she knew me. She understood I processed my thoughts and emotions through the end of my fingertips, through the clicking of the keys, through the rhythm of my thoughts hitting the page.

  I kept my phrasing simple so it wouldn’t be a quantum leap for readers to believe my dog had written the post, not unless they failed to accept the spirit of this whimsical venture and branded my journey as one of self-aggrandizement or a foolish need for attention.

  After including just the barest details of finding the body—due to the fact Lenny didn’t want to offend his more sensitive followers—he continued by writing a glowing paragraph about Clark’s career. I wanted badly to mention his popularity with the ladies, but Lenny refrained. When I wrote as Lenny, I had no difficulty mentioning items of note and concern in the community, but I did it with a generosity of spirit and forgiveness that had certainly been channeled from my tiny friend to me.

  Finally, I concluded without mentioning Patti or her home. If I did, the town gossips would load those tasty tidbits into a rocket called social media and send it soaring through every ear, storefront, telephone, and billboard for miles around—or at least the three surrounding counties.

  “Okay, buddy, come over here and take a look.”

  Patti’s eyes narrowed. “Oh no, you don’t. He’s staying right here.”

  “Yip,” he said, still on his back, legs in the air.

  “Read it out loud.”

  I raised an eyebrow in question. Can she take it?

  In turn, she lifted a dyed-black eyebrow and stud in response.

  I began to read. Her facial expression didn’t change until I reached the part where Lenn
y expressed deep sadness for the neighborhood where Clark’s body was found. My canine counterpart ended his post with a plea for sympathy and understanding.

  “You think that’ll play?” she asked.

  “Yeah. The ones that read Lenny’s blog are already on your side.”

  “How many followers does he have?”

  “Three hundred and thirteen.”

  Patti didn’t say it, but I read it in her eyes. That wasn’t many.

  “I’m a modern woman, aren’t I?” I shook my fist with mock bravado. “I can grow Lenny’s readership. I just haven’t done it yet.”

  “Why bother?” Her gaze fell to Lenny, but I caught the blur of unshed tears.

  Over the past year two years, she’d lost both her parents and still clung to hope with ten black-painted fingernails. Patti’s prickly Goth persona protected her heart, the same way a desert cactus protected its fragile blooms, but Clark’s murderer had plucked that flower and ground it under his bootheel.

  I glared at her. “Because I’m motivated.”

  And because even though she was my best friend, I understood why she would be a prime suspect.

  Chapter 7

  The next morning was Saturday, Milagro’s busiest day of the week. Before the staff arrived, I whipped up one of Patti’s favorites, huevos rancheros, and shuffled her out the door toward the Feed and Supply. She didn’t put up much of a fuss. In fact, she threw her leather backpack over one shoulder and climbed into her jeep without as much as a sigh. I watched her squeal out of the parking lot, white gravel spitting in all directions, and said a silent prayer for peace of mind and renewed strength in her soul.

  I moseyed into the kitchen, glanced at the empty prep tables and cold stove—which would soon be laden with tantalizing peppers, onions, and savory meats—and immediately exited for the coffee machine out front. In spite of the cheerful act I’d donned for Patti, I wasn’t ready to meet the day or its customers.

  “Josie Callahan.” A voice, so deep I was surprised the floor didn’t tremble beneath my feet, called from the back door.