Here Today, Gone Tamale (12 page)

With a shake of her wrist, Hillary rattled her gold bracelets. “No. She said it was too late to make more changes. I was going to have to man up.” She clicked her teeth. “As if.”

I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing as I imagined Hillary with a buzz cut and no makeup.

“Don't worry,” she said, giving me the once-over. “I'm a pro.” And with that, she spun on her turquoise boots and sashayed out the door.

The cashier with the pink braces gave me a knowing look. “She is too.”

“Believe me, I have no doubt.”

Before I left the parking lot of the grocery store, I called to double-check that my uncle hadn't thought of something else.

“No, that's it. Get over here, Jo Jo. I have to be set up in twelve minutes.”

“I'll meet you there. Bring a dish for the walnuts. They're already chopped.”

“Great idea.
Vamos,
chica
.”

Wishing I had one more tamale in my belly, I drove to the old historic train depot that Bubba had bought and converted into a lip-smacking BBQ joint. The high ceilings were made of tin and painted gold, a color that transformed the interior into a light, airy place to enjoy succulent meats with finger-licking sauces.

Parking was at a minimum due to the influx of tourists, but as I drove up Bubba appeared at the back door and waved. “Pull in,” he said, gesturing to the no parking zone. “No deliveries today.”

Bubba was tall, and to describe him as brown would be missing the mark. He was dark as fresh asphalt. He hailed from Chad and had come to Broken Boot by way of a local pastor and his wife.

Though born in Africa, his speech was Texas twang. “Can I hep ya?”

“No, thanks, but you're going to be amazed. Uncle Eddie's outdone himself this year.”

As one of the cook-off judges, Bubba wasn't supposed to have any inside information. He covered his ears. “Don't tell me, but he'd better hurry, we're fixin' to start. Everyone else is already here.”

“How many entries this year?”

“Fifty.”

“Is that a record?”

“Yep. And once we become sanctioned by the International Chili Society, that number will bump up even more. I swear.” He placed one hand over his heart. “Eight entries are from tourists out of state.”

I cruised inside to find the restaurant had taken on the appearance of a ride at Fiesta Texas. They'd set up rope lines to control the traffic flow so that it would wind through the door, past the competing chili samples, regular BBQ menu items, drinks, and desserts, and back out the side entrance. My mouth started to water from the heat of chile peppers in the air.

Good thing I didn't have that extra tamale. Chili was my second favorite food in the world. Sweets had their place, but savory was my go-to food group.

“I didn't know committee members were allowed to participate.” Ryan smiled as he wandered over from the jukebox.

“No one ever said. And it is a blind contest, right?”

“If you say so.”

I glanced around. “Where's your other half?” I didn't say
better half
'cause I try not to lie.

“She's around somewhere. I think she had some errands to run. Dry cleaning, tailoring, something like that.” His eyes glazed over.

We laughed together. Ryan was such a dude. Again, I wondered if he knew that Hillary smoked e-cigarettes. How would he react when he found out? Ryan, the ultimate health nut, would not approve.

“So where's your chili?” he asked.

“Uh-uh,” I said, wagging a finger. “It's blind judging, or did you forget already?” I hadn't entered, but I didn't want him to figure out which chili recipe belonged to my uncle.

He smacked his lips. “I only wanted to taste the miracle.”

I didn't cook much. Senora Mari had that right. But I did cook a mean chili I liked to call Austin chili. I made my own delicious concoction with organically grown peppers and
onions, free-range turkey, and pine nuts. A recipe I created myself, it caught people by surprise, or so they said, which probably meant they didn't like it. Ryan loved it, and it had kept us together as a couple far longer than was healthy for either of us.

“What chili is Hillary famous for?” Sometimes I'm a bit passive-aggressive.

He frowned. “I have to go to the judges' meeting.”

“Aren't you and Bubba the judges?”

“Yeah, but we have to disappear while the candidates put out their entries so we don't see who's who.”

“Who are the guest judges?”

“Uh-uh. It's a blind tasting,” he said with a grin and walked away.

My phone buzzed with a text from Uncle Eddie even as he scurried in the back door. My phone was smart, but unreliable. Like some men I'd known.

“'Bout time.”

“Quit your yammering and help me set up.”

My uncle had brought three large crockpots of chili with heaping dishes of lettuce, tomatoes, cheddar cheese, red onions, salsa, and sour cream, plus the shredded coconut and walnuts.

I grabbed a bowl.

“Nope. Don't you do it.” He handed me a small paper sample cup. “Got to keep the crockery for the paying customers, gal.”

“Okay, fine.” After the first bite, I died and finished the rest in chili heaven.

I tried to stick around to give him some support.

“Jo Jo, don't sit so close, folks will figure out which one is mine.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“I'm not sure, what with the murder and Anthony being arrested. Folks might be prejudiced against us.”

“Or they might be rooting for us.”

“True.” He frowned. “Lord, I hope that's the case.”

“Smile.” I took several pictures with my phone of Uncle Eddie and his chili, one with his entry number in the foreground and one of him standing in front of the blue ribbon. Then we both skedaddled and found a seat outside.

“Howdy,” my uncle said to Fred Mueller, the owner of Fredericksburg Antiques, who sat at a nearby table drinking a cup of hot tea. If I'd seen anyone else besides Mueller drinking a steaming beverage on a blazingly hot day, I'd have sworn they were one card shy of a full deck. In fact, I had no idea Bubba's sold anything other than iced tea so sweet you could stand a fork in it.

As we found a seat, Mueller stood. “Good luck,” he said and gave Uncle Eddie a formal handshake before hurrying on his way. Had he hired someone to help him run his store while he enjoyed a festive lunch? Or had he closed his doors in order to deliver his own chili entry? Mueller might be German Texan, but the man could cook. His chili was usually found in the burn-your-taste-buds-off category.

He could keep it. I didn't want my meals to bite me in the butt.

While my uncle chatted with some of the other entrants from out of state, I thumbed through the pictures I'd taken and shared the best ones with Aunt Linda and Patti. My phone gallery was almost full, so I began to delete several pictures of Lenny.

I missed my silky-haired friend. Now that we were sleeping at Casa Martinez, Aunt Linda's place, I couldn't run upstairs to throw his rubber ball or play tug-of-war with his blanket. Some of the photos I could have deleted were kept, and I vowed to bring him a doggie treat when I returned.

That would give me a great excuse to see Patti's place. The Broken Boot Feed and Supply store sold a plethora of doggie treats and toys, and for that matter, I would take him with me when I went. The thought of parading him down the sidewalk during the festival lifted my spirits.

I stopped, riveted by a photo on my phone, a picture of a boot print with a coin next to it. I shook my head at my own pretentiousness. I'd seen the coin trick on a western detective series. It was supposed to indicate the size of the shoe once you compared it to the size of the coin, in this case a quarter.

A child wailed at the next table, and I struggled not to lose my train of thought. The sheriff's department had found an athletic shoe print they claimed matched Anthony's. If that was the case, whose print was this? Certainly not mine. I had worn boots with a much smaller heel that night. The shape of this boot heel looked like a traditional roper.

Why hadn't Sheriff Wallace or Lightfoot pursued this second print? Why would they have arrested Anthony if there was proof that someone else was standing near the body on the night of the
murder?

When I first saw the boot print the night of the murder in the pool of kitchen grease, I'd thought it was one of the busboys' prints because they were the ones who emptied the grease trap. This could have belonged to one of our guests, one of the twins, one of the family, or the murderer.

Anger pulsed in my temples. Why in the heck had they arrested Anthony when this other print existed? I'd found it next to the Dumpster just like his.

I forced myself to slow my breathing. Maybe the sheriff's department had already ruled out the owner of the mysterious boot print. Would they tell me who it belonged to if I asked them? I gave myself a mental slap. In spite of his kind bearing, Sheriff Wallace wasn't going to bend the rules. Lightfoot's serious countenance came to mind. He wasn't about to give me any information either.

Who then?

I glanced around at the tourists and familiar faces. I didn't see anyone who could help, so I decided to find the answer in my car.

From my days at the newspaper, I kept a portable office in the Prius. It was handy keeping things in one place, and right then I needed desperately to put my hand on a ruler.

Uncle Eddie was talking to a family of strangers, making them laugh with true stories about the celebrities who'd passed through Two Boots. He was doing his thing, bringing in curious customers. And he did it well.

In the car, I dug out the bendable ruler and measured the quarter in the picture. Then I measured the boot print. As that revealed next to nothing, I slapped my steering wheel with the ruler a good six or seven times. I took a deep breath and started using my smartphone to search for anything that had to do with using a quarter as a standard of measurement. Within seconds, I discovered that a quarter is approximately an inch in diameter. I am by no means a math wizard, but I found a conversion chart and calculated that the boot in the picture was approximately ten and a half inches long. After a minute or two of more searching, I discovered that a ten and a half inch boot print was either a women's size ten and a half or a men's size nine and a half. It didn't sound kosher to me, but I double-checked and found that the numbers were correct when it came to cowboy boots.

Hmm. Whoever had made that print was either a tall woman or a short man. Or someone whose feet were in disproportion to their height.

But who made the print? A man or a woman? That was like asking: Who wears boots to a tamale party? The answer: Everyone and their mother.

My uncle wouldn't miss me, and I had an idea. I would traipse over to the Boot and Bag. I'd noticed something of note in the photo and I wanted a second opinion.

*   *   *

The leather goods repair shop stood on Davis Road. Though only two blocks off Main, it was like living on the back side of the moon. The concrete streets were old and in poor
condition. The lampposts were county issued and not the decorative faux antiques along the main drag. The shop itself had aluminum siding and a big plate-glass window.

Inside, the owner, Mr. Cho, was hard at work. Longtime residents of Broken Boot, he and his wife were the only game in town. They made a living, and some said a killing, repairing our boots, buckles, and bags because they had no other employees and low overhead. Now that their kids had gone off to college, one always found the diminutive owner in the back, his bespectacled face close to a boot or a leather pair of shoes, while his outgoing wife helped the customers in the front.

No one was inside when I arrived, not even Mrs. Cho. “Hello?” I called.

Mr. Cho came out of the back, his eyes darting back and forth as if startled by actually having to wait on a customer.

He knew me, of course, from Monday night bingo at our dance hall. Mr. Cho was a big supporter of Father Allen's fundraiser.

“Can I help you, miss?”

I enlarged the photo on my phone. “I have a quick question, if you don't mind.”

His eyes widened. “Me?”

I went to the end of the counter and he eventually joined me. “See this boot print?” I pointed to the impression in the photo. “What's wrong with it? Why isn't the full print showing?”

He looked at me for a few seconds and then pushed his glasses up his nose. “The heel is broken here.” He pointed to the bottom right corner of the impression. “This person walks on the outside of their feet, so no full pressure along here.” He ran his finger along the inside of the print.

We stared at each other. “Do you work on a lot of shoes that belong to people who walk like that?”

“Sometimes.”

“What about the broken heel?”

Shaking his head, he crossed his arms. “You have shoes that need fixing or what?”

I ran out to my car and dug out the stilettos I'd buried in the trunk on my way out of Austin. They were the special pumps I'd bought to wear to my bachelorette party, but since that had never happened, and I'd lost the receipt, I was stuck with a pair of shoes I would never wear unless hell froze over.

If Mr. Cho would answer my question for a twelve dollar repair, who was I to quibble?

“The heel's coming off.” The five-inch heel had separated from the sole when I'd used it as a knocker on my ex-fiancé's door. Only after I broke the heel did I find out he'd moved to Australia without telling me.

“Expensive shoe,” he said, nodding his head. “Too bad it was not made with true craftsmanship.”

He wrote up the ticket, and I gave him Milagro's address. I fished out my debit card and paid him, all the while pulsing with excitement. This could be pivotal. If he identified the owner of this boot, I was one step closer to bringing Anthony home.

“So?”

“So,” he said, closing the register as if we hadn't studied the photo only minutes earlier.

“How many broken heels have you seen lately like the one in the photo?”

“Lately? A dozen.”

What did that mean? Since January first? Since last June?

I swallowed back my frustration and found there was a glint in his eye. Someone was having a good time at my expense.

I laughed. “Yes, well played. How about this month?”

“None,” he said and one side of his mouth kicked up.

Shoot. This was only the first week of the month. “How about in the last two weeks?”

He scratched the end of his nose. “Two.” He turned to walk away.

“Two broken heels?”

“Yes,” he said over his shoulder.

“With outside wear like this one?”

“No.” He entered the back workshop and picked up a pair of well-worn men's dress shoes.

“You mean no broken heels.”

“No.” He placed the shoes on the worktable and began to inspect them.

I wanted to scream. “You mean no outside wear?”

“No, not what I mean.” With slow precision, he ran his fingers along the soles and around the heels.

I started to count to ten, but only made it to three. “What then?” I cried.

Turning slowly to face me, he said. “No
cowboy
boot like this one came in in the past two weeks that had a broken heel
and
outside wear like the one in the picture.”

“Oh.”

He shook his head with a devilish smile. “Check back in a few weeks. Boots come and boots go,” he said in a singsong voice.

Clanging the bell over the door, Mrs. Cho entered. “Hello, Josie. How are you?”

“Uh, great.” I caught the door before it closed. “I've got to be going.”

She glanced toward the workroom with a worried expression. “Mr. Cho, he took good care of you?”

“Yes, ma'am.” I gave her a jaunty wave. “See you later.”

I hurried back to the chili cook-off. The line now snaked out the door, past the building and the next two businesses on the street. My chili feast would have to wait.

Uncle Eddie was wearing a new path along the side of the depot, he was so nervous.

“Are they still judging?”

“Nearly finished.” He plucked his hat from his head and nervously straightened the band between his fingers.

Glancing at the tables, I studied the offerings on their
plates, but one chili could pass for another at ten feet. “Which ones are the most popular?”

He frowned with disgust. “The Texas ones.”

Bubba left the line and stepped to one side, marking his judge's form on his clipboard. He started circling scores and I started praying. Uncle Eddie needed a win.

Ryan left the line next, and I saw him in the full light of day. You know those moments when you see someone you've known for years, but suddenly you see them the same way a stranger would see them? He was a handsome man, not perfect. His nose was bent from playing football and he walked a tad bowlegged. But his face told the story. It was an open, honest face. There was intelligence in his eyes without a mean bone in his body.

A good friend.

“So what do you think?” I asked him as he handed Bubba his clipboard.

“I think I'm hungry.”

“You goober, you just ate twenty-four servings of chili.”

“And not one helping of peach cobbler.”

I laughed. Running kept him thin, but one day that belly would appear and he'd understand how the rest of us, namely me, struggled.

“Come on, coach.” Bubba handed off the clipboards to the committee members tallying the votes. “You've earned your pie.”

Ryan rubbed his belly and gave me a wink. “And a scoop of ice cream?”

“That'll be fifty cents.” Bubba didn't crack a smile.

Ryan's brow furrowed, and the BBQ owner laughed. “Nah, it's on the house.”

“Want some?” Ryan asked, lifting a brow. This week we'd spent more one-on-one time than we had in years, but all I could think of in that moment was,
Where is Hillary?
And,
It should be illegal for my former college sweetheart to still be so darned cute.

I didn't hesitate. “No, thanks.”

With a wave, the two judges traipsed back into the fray to forage for ice cream.

Uncle Eddie scurried over. “Did he give a hint as to how I did?”

“No, that would be dishonest.” Ryan had never tried Eddie's nontraditional chili before, so it would indeed be judged fairly.

A third and fourth judge came out of the line with a clipboard in hand. Elaine had done things right. Now no one could accuse Bubba of choosing a friend's chili, even if they had been able to guess which entry belonged to whom.

My uncle pulled off his Stetson and wiped his brow. “I'm hungry, but I don't want to wait in that line.”

“Come on, I'll wait with you. Maybe by the time we make our way up there, the winners will be posted.”

We waited in line for twenty minutes, briefly discussing Dixie and Anthony and mostly gabbing about the festival lineup at Two Boots.

“Did you say Ty Honeycutt's still on the schedule to play?”

Uncle Eddie's voice rose. “Yeah, I told him he could postpone until next month if he wanted, and he threatened me with a lawsuit for breaking his contract.”

“You're kidding?”

“Nope.”

“Has he always been so . . . ornery?”

“Well, yeah, but he's been strange since Dixie was murdered.”

“How horrible to wait, day after day, before he can lay her to rest.”

A young mother, holding on to two wailing toddlers, trudged by on her way to the car park. “Jessica,” my uncle called after her good-naturedly, “you should've given those girls some of my chili if you didn't want any complaints.”

Jessica answered with a glare powerful enough to pierce an armadillo's armor.

“Dixie's funeral arrangements won't be cheap,” I said. I'd heard tell of people being buried in a sheet when the family didn't have any money to do otherwise. It made me mad to think that Dixie might have that kind of send-off.

Ty was a reprobate, no-good gambler who shouldn't have lost all his money playing cards.

“How can he be that desperate?” I sighed. In all likelihood, Dixie hadn't left a formal will, and even if she had, Ty wouldn't be able to touch her money until the case was closed.

“Desperate or not, he better put on a good show. He's kicking things off tonight.”

Then it hit me. Ty wasn't short, nor was he tall. He could easily wear size nine and a half boots.

There was only one way of finding out. I could handle his brazenness on my own, but it would be amusing to see Patti go head to head with him. She had a healthy animosity for pigheaded rednecks, so if he turned out to be one of those, we'd be covered. On the other hand, if he was merely a handsome, misunderstood musician down on his luck, she'd help me to steer clear once he'd answered our questions.

Uncle Eddie and I made our way through the line, and as we sat down to share a table with some folks from Monroe, Louisiana, the festival committee brought the ribbons forward. I didn't know the person about to make the announcements, but it was one of the guest judges, an elderly fellow with wire-rimmed glasses and a Santa beard.