The Good, the Bad and the Guacamole Page 9

“Hey, deputy. Want some coffee?”

  Lightfoot emerged from the kitchen, found one of the cups stacked at the waiter’s station, and filled it from the first of many carafes of coffee that would be brewed during the day.

  I was glad to see him. It kept me from hunting him down.

  “Thanks.” He studied the tile, the exposed beams, and every booth and table. “You here on your own?”

  “For the time being.” Carlos would arrive in the next half hour to start preparing for lunch.

  “That wise?”

  “Why? You think I’m going to produce another dead body in the stockroom? Or from under the kitchen sink?”

  His ebony eyes narrowed. “What time do you start cooking around here?” He raised his head and sniffed.

  “Come on,” I muttered. From the fridge I gathered eggs, leftover refried beans, and Carlos’s awesomely awesome fresh salsa.

  “Humph.” Lightfoot watched me closely as I turned on the griddle and anointed it with a splash of olive oil. “I thought you couldn’t cook.”

  “Any fool can cook eggs.” Much to my eternal mortification, only weeks ago Senora Mari attempted to convince Lightfoot that I would be a worthy mate due to my smarts . . . even if I was lacking in culinary skills.

  “Make yourself useful and hand those to me.” I pointed to a tub half filled with leftover homemade corn tortillas.

  “Why aren’t you working on your big article on Jeff Clark’s murder?”

  With a flip of the wrist, I tossed corn tortillas on the hot griddle. “It’s an ongoing work of epic proportions.” I cracked the eggs on the sizzling surface and found two spatulas.

  “Need some help?”

  “No, but I hate to see a body with nothing to do.” I handed him a spatula. “Flip those tortillas, por favor.”

  Within a couple of minutes, we’d produced four mouthwatering tortillas of runny-egg goodness. Our conversation stalled as we ate, the only exchange the sound of satisfaction. It wasn’t until he’d finished his three tortillas and I my one that he repeated his question. “Did you finish your article on the Clark case?”

  “Yes and no.”

  He found a bit of paper towel and wiped his mouth. “Go ahead.”

  I paused to refill our cups, take a big swallow of brew, and burn the roof of my mouth to blue blazes.

  “What’s your angle?” He watched me over the brim of his own cup, seemingly unfazed by the temperature of our strong coffee.

  His word choice was aggressive, but I refused to respond in kind. I had a feeling I knew where this was headed. “Uh, let’s see. I tried to keep it simple: where and when. I added a couple of quotes from his band and road crew.” I shrugged. “Heartwarming stuff.”

  “What’d you say about the murder weapon?”

  I found the cream in the pie cooler and made a production of adding just the right amount to cool the coffee. “I didn’t mention it. Why would I? You’re trying to solve the case, right?”

  “Did you mention where the body was found?”

  “What? Like, in a bowl of guacamole?” In spite of myself, I answered abruptly, revealing my resentment of his need to ask me such a stupid question. What was I—a high-school intern?

  “Just answer the question.”

  Without thinking, I slammed the cup to the counter and sloshed the hot liquid onto my hand. I cursed.

  He grabbed my wrist before I could pull away with a strong, leathery-smooth hand and lifted it toward the light. “You better put some cold water on that.”

  I started to argue but resisted; the skin between my thumb and index finger was on fire. I marched over to the sink with Deputy Do-Right on my tail. “No, I did not mention the electric guitar, the bowl of guacamole, or the fact that he’d had a fight with one of his band members the night before that nearly resulted in my being run over like an armadillo in the middle of Main Street.”

  In my agitated state, I turned on the water with my left hand and stifled a whimper, realizing my mistake too late. Feeling his gaze on my face, I took several slow breaths, kept my eyes on my throbbing hand, and waited for my inner wimp to get a grip.

  “Whoa, now.” With a light touch, he turned my wrist and studied the red angry patches. With his other hand, he drew my hand under the water with a gentle touch.

  I shuffled as far away from him as I could without removing my blistered skin from the water. “I got it.”

  Abruptly, he dropped my wrist and crossed to the far side of the kitchen. “Uh.” He shifted his feet. “I didn’t mean to insult you or your article, but Wallace is here and he’s riding my—” He cleared his throat. “Let’s just say he’s leaving no pebble unkicked.”

  After giving the deputy a nod of forgiveness, I studied the deep lines around his mouth.

  He straightened his shoulders and adjusted his cowboy hat so that it hid any emotion in his eyes. “Which band member was Clark fighting? And what was it about?”

  Shoot. Me and my big mouth. “I don’t know his name.” I wasn’t about to stand in the way of law enforcement, but I had wanted a chance to consider all the facts I’d gathered before presenting them to him. My plan: first, submit my article to the Bugle; second, contact Deputy Lightfoot before the paper hit the newsstand.

  We stared at each other, two gunslingers prepared to draw if the other refused to kowtow to demands.

  I dried my hands and returned to the dining room to fill the glass sugar containers for the day, which gave me time to consider my words. “The night of Clark’s concert, we were waiting outside his dressing room and overheard a shouting match over . . . something. Could have been a song, a guitar, or a toothbrush, for all I know.”

  “We?”

  “Patti.” I studied his face for any hint of reaction, but he didn’t even blink. I’d thought the two of them might become an item, but apparently that ship had sailed for Cozumel.

  “What were you two doing there?”

  “I assume you mean backstage,” I called over my shoulder as I gathered three containers and carried them to the table closest to the kitchen.

  Before I could stop him, Lightfoot gathered five glass dispensers and placed them alongside the others. “That’s right. Did you know him?” Without hesitation, he gathered the rest and plunked them down next to the others.

  “Nope.”

  His eyes narrowed. “How about Patti?” I’d purposely left my friend out of the explanation for as long as possible. I found the tin of sugar in the storage closet and returned.

  “How’d she know him?” Lightfoot asked, lifting an eyebrow.

  With a practiced hand, I removed all the lids and wiped them down. “They were a couple a few years ago. He sent her a text message asking her to meet him in his dressing room the night of the concert.”

  No sign of jealousy marred his intense concentration. With a sage nod, he pulled a small notebook and a stub of a pencil out of his breast pocket and made a brief note. “What was the argument about?”

  I topped off the containers and screwed on the lids. “Like I said, I’m not sure. We were standing outside the dressing room at that point. One of them said something like ‘Give it to me.’ Someone else—I think it was Jeff—yelled, ‘Give it back.’ It sounded as if they were shoving furniture—that or tossing it. I didn’t see the inside of the room; I only heard a crash, and then this angry character came storming out.”

  With a nod, he made an additional note, this one longer and more detailed. “What time was that?”

  I grabbed a cloth from the shelf under the register and began to wipe down the surrounding countertop. “Let’s see. The show was supposed to start at ten o’clock, but Ty Honeycutt’s set went long. We headed backstage when Clark’s band failed to take the stage. It couldn’t have been later than five after.”

  He tapped the notebook with the end of his pencil. “A
nd?”

  I threw the cloth back onto the shelf where it resided. “Like I said, after we heard something fall, this tall guy with a goatee came shoving his way past us.”

  “Did you know him?”

  “No, but I assumed he was in the band.”

  “Why?”

  “He wore a black leather vest and matching leather pants. Who else would dress like that?”

  “You can’t assume.”

  “Don’t worry. I noticed him onstage that night.” He had to be one of the jealous band members Wilhelmina alluded to before she booted me from the bus. What if Redheaded Goatee Guy had continued their fight at Patti’s and ended Clark’s musical career with a guitar to the skull?

  “What’d Jeff say about it?”

  “Huh. Clark said nothing. Changed the subject when I told him they’d have to pay for any damages.”

  He flipped a page and made a note. “Tell me about Jeff Clark.”

  I hesitated, remembering too clearly Clark’s handsome smile and smooth charm—all for Patti’s benefit. “Unruffled.” I couldn’t explain why I’d disliked Clark from the beginning. I finally managed, “and cocky.”

  “He wasn’t angry, even though you said he and his bandmate had a fight?”

  “You’re right.” I began to gather up the sugar dispensers. “He stormed out of his dressing room ready to skin his own buffalo.”

  “Thought you were a big-city gal.”

  “What?”

  “Go on.”

  “But he threw it off once he realized we were there.” I hugged the six containers and crossed to a table in the far corner.

  I expected him to grill me, but he returned his notebook and pencil stub to his pocket, took another swig of coffee, and walked over to the waiter’s station and placed the cup in the gray tub we used for dirty dishes. When he turned, his gaze had softened. “Josie, I don’t want you to get hurt.”

  Surprised, I grinned. “This ain’t my first rodeo, deputy.”

  “It could be your last if you’re not careful.”

  “I learned my lesson,” I said, crossing my heart. “One encounter with a killer is enough for a lifetime.”

  He shook his head in disbelief. “When’s this article you’re writing coming out?”

  “Sunday. I’m hoping to write a follow-up as well.”

  He nodded. “That’s good.”

  “Why?”

  He straightened his badge. “We’ll have completed most of the investigation by then.”

  A door slammed in the back, and I spun around. “Helloooo,” I called, embarrassed by my lack of composure.

  “Just me,” Carlos said in a sleepy voice. With a bang on the metal prep table and the slamming of refrigerator doors, our head cook had arrived to start his day.

  The door from the kitchen swung open. “Morning— Oh, hey, deputy.” Our cook wore his usual combination of jeans, black Selina Forever T-shirt, white bandana across his brow to ward off the heat of the kitchen, and unbuttoned white chef’s coat. This last item was an attempt by Aunt Linda to remind Carlos that our kitchen had to meet the health code of the great state of Texas. Senora Mari thought it was all rubbish and didn’t bother to insist he keep the coat buttoned. He turned his sad, mournful eyes on me as if I held the answers to the mysteries of life.

  “What’s the special today?” I never asked why Carlos seemed a little out of it, forgetting from one day to the next what we had purchased from the market that week. Senora Mari had hired him, and if he met her high standards and didn’t bother the rest of us, I’d leave the details to her. Customers loved our food, so he wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon.

  “Not sure, but I know Senora Mari found tilapia and chicken breasts on sale this week.”

  His eyes grew wide. “Uh, that’s it?”

  “Check the bulletin board. Aunt Linda should have tacked the specials up last night before she left.”

  His face cleared like a child realizing he wasn’t going to have to sit in the time-out chair after all. Without another word, he reversed through the swinging door like a jack-in-the-box.

  I swung toward Lightfoot, hoping to catch him up short. “Can I ride along on your next interview?”

  “No.”

  “Not a sound, nor a peep.”

  “No.”

  “Not even a question. Silent as a mouse.”

  “What do you think this is—Castle?”

  Well, shut my mouth. Deputy Lightfoot watched television dramas.

  “Not a fan.”

  “Humph. Still not going to happen.”

  I followed him to the door. “I have to write these stories—you know I do.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Why not help me to write them accurately?”

  With one arm on the push bar, he turned slowly. With an intensity akin to a polecat studying a gopher pup, he studied me in silence.

  My pulsed surged, but I held my ground. “We could exchange information.”

  “You mean I’d tell you something that might hurt the integrity of this investigation and you tell me something that might or might not have any bearing on this case.”

  My face flamed. “I told you plenty.”

  He slammed the bar and stepped into the sunshine.

  “Hey, what about an even exchange of information?”

  “The body was sent to El Paso for an autopsy,” he threw over his shoulder.

  “What’s that? You always send bodies there.” I followed him into the parking lot. “Hey, I just gave you that guy with the goatee.”

  “Nah, I already heard about the fight from Vinnie.”

  With a grunt, he removed his hat, smoothed his raven hair, and replaced the Stetson so it rode low over his eyes. “Do yourself a favor, Jo Jo,” he said, adopting the nickname used only by my family, which rusted my spurs. “Stay out of our way. Don’t try to help us—we don’t need your help. You were lucky last time. What if this time we’re not dealing with a crazy local, but a hardened criminal who wouldn’t think twice of killing you, Patti, and your dog?”

  I struggled to find a witty rejoinder as he unlocked his cruiser, threw it into reverse, and propelled onto Main Street, spraying gravel in his wake. Only now that he’d splattered my mind with our narrow escape from Elaine Burnett, I was slow to the draw.

  I hurried to the street. “Says you!” I hollered. His cruiser was unimpressed as it vanished around the corner.

  * * *

  Like a kitten defending her kibble, I’d embarrassed myself by screeching after Lightfoot for all of Main Street to enjoy. There was nothing left to do but head on over to the Cogburn Hotel and grab my interview with Clark’s agent by the horns.

  I stepped inside to find my shoulder bag.

  “Is that Indian looking for trouble?” Senora Mari demanded from the wait station, scaring the bejesus out of me.

  “Native American, Abuela.”

  “Yes, yes. Well, is he?”

  I rifled through my bag, finding my phone and notepad, but no pen or pencil. “You know men.”

  “Humph. That native ordered—”

  “Native American,” Aunt Linda said, joining us from the direction of her office.

  “When did you two get here?” Any other time I would’ve heard them in the parking lot, arguing louder than a truck full of turkeys.

  “I needed an oil change, so Eddie dropped us off.”

  “Humph.” Senora Mari thrust her hands on her hips. “That deputy ordered you to stay home like a good girl, sí?”

  “That sums it up.”

  “Who is he to boss you around?” Aunt Linda demanded, a deep furrow of disapproval across her forehead.

  “Whoa,” I said, surprising myself. “He is a deputy, an officer of the law.” I might have a hankering for investigative journalism,
on a Broken Boot–size scale, but Lightfoot was the real deal, dedicated and humble.

  “He doesn’t have to be uppity with it, and don’t you let him.” She pointed a finger for emphasis and spun on her heel, returning to her office and its piles of bills.

  I hurried through the kitchen, hoping to slip out before Senora Mari waylaid my investigative efforts.

  “Where are you going, chica?” My abuela was as stealthy as a Mexican ninja.

  I swallowed. “Headed to the Cogburn Hotel.”

  “Your tables are covered?” she demanded, pointing toward the dining room with her chin.

  “Anthony and Camille will be here.”

  Her strong hands found her hips—their permanent resting place. “It’s Saturday.”

  “They can handle it. Besides, they’ll be glad for a two-way split.”

  “Tsk, tsk.” She clicked her tongue as she considered my response. “Why are you running up and down the street instead of earning your keep?”

  I sighed. Only the truth would defend my honor. “It’s essential for my story that I interview Jeff Clark’s agent.”

  “The dead guy?”

  “Right. And the hotel won’t tell me if he checked in last night.”

  Like a mime on Austin’s Sixth Street, she lifted her shoulders in an exaggerated shrug. “So call him.”

  “It’s going straight to voice mail.” He hadn’t answered the four previous times I’d phoned him. I was lucky if he hadn’t already decided to block my number.

  She marched over to the old rotary-dial phone on the wall—that had to be as ancient as she was—and dialed. “Hola.” She paused to listen. “Muy bien.” Her smile lit up the room.

  “What are you doing?” Her meddling could ruin my tenuous relationship with Ken Price, especially with the drama already on his plate. “Shh. Stop whatever it is you’re doing.” I hung over her shoulder, trying to listen in.

  She launched into a rapid conversation in Spanish. “Uh-huh,” she answered with keen interest. “Uh-huh,” she answered yet again, the interest in her voice—feigned or real—growing in intensity. Again she asked the person on the other line three or four rapid-fire questions. She glanced at me, her eyebrows rose, and she nodded. “Okay.” She listened some more. “Gracias.”