Here Today, Gone Tamale (14 page)

Anthony wasn't an average teen like those knuckleheads. For reasons I didn't understand, he had assumed the role of father and breadwinner. His main concern wasn't joyriding or drinking beer, but how to provide a better life for his siblings. He would never place his family in jeopardy by hurting Dixie. It was a ridiculous idea.

And yet, it didn't surprise me that Sheriff Wallace would find it hard to believe that Dixie would have flirted with a boy his age.

I stumbled over a cobblestone in my everyday Tony Llamas. As I paused to regain my balance, I noticed in my peripheral vision that someone was about a half block behind us.

I hadn't noticed the population thinning around me, but the block was nearly deserted except for a middle-aged couple window-shopping across the street. I had no cause to feel
nervous, but then the image of Dixie's final smile swam into my mind. I was only one and a half blocks away, but I lengthened my strides.

Whoever walked behind us did the same.

It was ridiculous to feel afraid, but I wanted to make sure we weren't in any danger. Pretending interest in a window filled with garden hoses, I stopped long enough to steal a glance at my pursuer.

The teen heading toward us wore skinny jeans with holes, a chain on his belt, and a black hoodie over his head. If he was pursuing us, he was nonchalant about it. He wore black earbuds and held his cell phone as if watching a video.

Would this kid who weighed all of ninety pounds really steal my wallet or something worse? I needed to take a serious chill pill. Broken Boot wasn't Austin or Dallas.

I waited for the kid in the hoodie to pass me before Lenny and I continued toward Patti's. How did he like it now that we were following him? I laughed at myself. He was totally unaware of me and my fears.

Suddenly, he spun around and walked straight up to me. “You Josefina Callahan?” The youth's features resembled one of the angels in the painting of the nativity that hung in Uncle Eddie's office.

Except that his eyes flamed with rage.

I was shaking so much I could barely speak. “Y-yes. That's me.”

“You gave my sister a message?”

I'd never seen the teen or his sister, nor did I want to from the expression on his face. Quickly, I shook my head. “No.”

“I knew it,” the boy cried and tossed back his hood. “She's always trying to push me.” With his last plaintiff word, his vocal quality changed to a distinctive female cadence.

Wait a minute. “Are you Lily?”

When she nodded in agreement, it all fell into place. Her hair was short, but with delicate bangs that accented her large eyes, and like her other siblings, she had ultra-thick lashes. It
had been easy to mistake her for a boy because her unisex clothes hid her slight figure.

I gave her a warm smile. “You must give your brother a pounding headache on a regular basis.” I could just imagine macho, traditional Anthony trying to play the role of father with his modern teen sister. Forget about Saturday night wrestling; those two must have had knock-down, drag-outs.

She searched my face for signs of criticism. “Sometimes,” she said and grinned.

“I'm glad you found me.”

Lenny placed two paws on her legs. “Yip.”

“Lenny, down.”

Lily backed away as if afraid the small dog would nip at her ankles.

“That just means he likes you,” I said warmly.

She frowned. “I didn't want anyone to see you talking to me, in case my sister got it wrong.”

Had other people in town shunned them?

“I don't mind. You can talk to me anytime. I know Anthony's not guilty.”

“How do you know?” she demanded.

“Because I know your brother. We've worked side by side for months.”

Lenny licked her combat boot.

Nibbling her bottom lip, she studied him for a moment. “I want the job. What do I have to do?”

I paused. “Stay in school.”

She backed away. “I knew it. You never intended to give me a job,” she cried, her volume soaring. “You're just some do-gooder who feels sorry for us because our brother's in trouble.”

Slowly I reached out, palms down, to calm her. “I will give you a job, if, and only if, you promise to stay in school. You can work with us until Anthony gets back, but in the fall you can only work after school and on weekends.”

“I won't make enough.”

“You will. I'll help you.”

She flipped up the hoodie and once again transformed into her masculine counterpart. “Can I start today?”

“No.”

With a frown, she turned away.

“Come by tomorrow morning,” I called after her, “and we'll start your paperwork.”

She spun toward me. “Tomorrow?”

“Ten o'clock,” I agreed.

“Yes,” she cried. “I'll be there.” Wearing a wide grin, she spun back around and broke into a trot, pumping the air with her fist.

I allowed myself to breathe.

“She's tough.” I bent down and stroked Lenny's head. “But you were never scared, were you, boy?”

Now that Lily had found me, I was more determined than ever to help Anthony. Waiting around for Dixie's killer to misstep wasn't a quick solution, but for now it was all I
had.

Outside Patti's family store, a middle-aged man came out with a length of new rope over one shoulder. He tipped his cowboy hat at the both of us, threw the rope into the back, and drove off in his mud-spattered long-bed truck. The original Broken Boot Feed and Supply store sign hung from the white plank siding above the front door, the familiar red-and-white checks forming the backdrop to the red block letters. Patti had added more signs on either side of the entrance. They were kitschy gems of homey brands that had aged gracefully, Coca-Cola, Wheaties, and Phillips 66.

We cruised inside, the cowbell above the door clanging a melody. To one side were the usual shelves of tonics, tools for cleaning horse hooves, moisturizers for cow teats, and fox urine to keep the feral animals from the pastures.

I waited a few seconds to see if anyone would appear. “Patti?” I called, walking toward the back of the store. Behind the main counter, two metal doors stood open, revealing bags of feed and cedar chips stacked five feet high. A terrible crash, like two cherubs banging pots in a heavenly kitchen, rang
from the loading dock beyond. We hurried over, Lenny barking a greeting. A long screeching sound of metal on concrete came next, causing both of us to cringe.

“Sorry about that,” Patti hollered as she came into sight. She wore a clean black T-shirt, which revealed tattoos up and down her arms. Multiple piercings on each ear were in place, but she'd kept her makeup simple with cat-eye liner and crimson lipstick.

After dusting off her hands on her jeans, she gave me a quick hug. “Did you see any tourists outside trying to find their way in?” She studied the mirrors that hung high on the walls at the end of each aisle and checked for unseen guests.

“Afraid not. Hasn't business picked up any?”

She shrugged. “Not yet, but there's still hope.” She scooped up Lenny and gave him a kiss on the top of his head. “When is mommy going to tattoo your name over her heart?”

“Someone almost tattooed him for real this afternoon.” I pointed to his shaved left side and showed her a picture on my phone of his twisted lipstick tattoo.

“People in this town are sick.”

While she wiped down a counter with glass cleaner, I told her all about the creepy message, how I'd found Lenny tied to a lamppost, and how the sheriff had virtually ignored my plea for action.

“You know he's very punk rock this way.” She ran a hand down his shaved side. “I think you should leave his coat like it is, it suits him.”

I laughed. “Don't hold your breath.”

She waggled her eyebrows, lifting the silver ball of her brow piercing. “Is that why you came by? You want me to shave him for you?”

“Uh, no thanks. We came to see what you've done to the place . . . and to talk about the murder. I have loads to tell you.”

Patti and I had hung out at the YMCA when we were kids, before my parents' accident, finding each other during my summer breaks away from big D. We hadn't had much in
common except the fact neither one of us were boy-crazy, aspiring pop stars, or wannabe cheerleaders. As a result, we mostly talked about movies, books, and how stupid the other girlie-girl conversations were.

“Just wait until you hear what happened to me,” Patti said.

“You first.”

“This morning was the art show, right? Elaine didn't let me out of judging so I show up at the library, as ordered. I might as well have been invisible. Melanie was large and in charge from the get-go.”

“But I thought you were judging the photography division?”

“That was the plan according to Elaine, but not the reality.”

“What happened?”

“We began by organizing the entries according to medium and age. Elaine had made it sound as if I would judge photography and printing, but Melanie couldn't stand to hand over any of the divisions outright so she had a hand in all of them.”

“Even in your categories?”

Patti nodded. “I helped her pick out the finalists, and she chose the winners.”

“That's downright tyrannical.”

“And a waste of my time.” Patti whistled and Lenny came running. “Let me show you something I know you'll love.” Scooping her new punk friend into the crook of her arm, she led us to three glass display cases on the far side of the store full of Southwestern style jewelry. On closer inspection, a small placard announced that all of the jewelry on display was made by Texas artisans.

There were earrings, rings, necklaces, brooches, trinkets, and some large silver rings for the earlobes known as gauges. I snuck a glance at Patti's earlobes and was secretly glad she hadn't added them to her personal list of body hardware.

“Wow, these are gorgeous,” I said pointing to a display of necklaces. “But how many people in Broken Boot can afford these?”

“Check the prices.”

They were extremely reasonable. “Fakes?”

“Imported stones from China,” she said, waggling her eyebrows.

I chuckled. “I don't want to know.”

Lenny sniffed the rings, and she pulled him back before he licked a man's ring set with a large colored stone in the Hopi tradition.

“Don't worry. They're authentic.” She strolled away after casting a quick glance at the door, and I followed. “Want some tea?”

With a smile, I retrieved Lenny. “No, thanks.” The conversation stalled while she plugged in the electric kettle. “It's good to see you.”

“You too.” Not one for pleasantries, she grimaced. “Now that that's behind us. Did you find something to free that kid . . . what's his name?”

“Anthony.” I pulled out my phone and shared the photo of the boot print.

“Where'd you find it?”

“By the Dumpster on the night of the murder.”

She studied the photo from every angle, running the tip of her tongue inside her lower lip.

“Are you chewing tobacco?”

Her extreme look of disgust made me laugh. “No.” Her face cleared. “I was licking my lip, wasn't I?”

I nodded.

“I might get a new tattoo. What do you think?”

“Inside your lip?”

She shrugged. “Why not?”

With so many tattoos on her arms, I was already having trouble distinguishing where one ended and another began. “Don't you think your canvas is full?”

“Nope.”

“I'm worried, Patti. There's no way Anthony could have killed Dixie. But he told the sheriff she tried to kiss him
behind Milagro that night, and now Wallace is convinced he's lying to cover his tracks.”

“That ain't good.”

I dropped Lenny's leash and lowered him to the floor so he could explore. Without being too obvious, I changed the subject. “Guess who's writing a blog?”

“Senora Mari?”

“Close. I'll give you a hint. The blogger is here with us today.”

Patti's brow furrowed, and then cleared, her eyes dancing with glee. “No?”

Holding a ball of twine in his mouth, Lenny trotted around the corner of the middle aisle, leaving a trail of twine in his wake.

I hurried to retrieve the wet ball from his mouth. “I hope this isn't your way of saying you're not much of a writer, buddy.”

“Great idea. You can write what you want and blame it on your dog.”

“You got it.” I held the wet mass between two fingers. “How much do I owe you?”

“Don't worry, it'll dry.” She bent down, pulled the twine up the aisle, and wrapped it carefully back into a ball. “Believe me, he's not the first.”

“Once we solve Dixie's murder and things settle down, Lenny's going to write about everyone in town: their family history, their work, and their reaction to Dixie's death.”

The kettle's whistle rang out, and Patti hurried to turn it off. She called from the other room, “Aren't you two the sneaky investigators?”

“Anthony's not guilty, and it burns my beans that someone in this town is laying low, hoping he'll get life in prison. Or worse.”

“Light a fire under that holier-than-thou festival committee. They're meaner than a skillet full of rattlesnakes.”

We both laughed at her Texas turn of phrase. She might
have multiple piercings and shoe-black hair, but she was a country girl underneath.

“You're hilarious,” I said. “Why would they want to kill her? She donated some of her most expensive pieces to the auction. They needed Dixie.”

Returning with a handmade ceramic mug in the shape of a longhorn steer, Patti leaned a hip against the counter. “I'm telling you. Some committee woman and Melanie got into it at the library while she and I were waiting for the last of the art contest entries to be brought over.” She fluttered her eyelashes. “And it wasn't very ladylike.”

“About what?”

“From where I was sitting, it sounded as if Dixie never delivered the silent auction necklace.”

I gasped. “Oh, no. That's terrible.”

“In the grand scheme of things, is that really such a big deal?” Patti wasn't selfish. She just wasn't into serving on committees with people twice her age.

“It's a huge deal to the children's home. It's their one major fundraiser every year.”

Distracted by a couple walking by the plate-glass window, she didn't answer immediately. “You're right. The kids need the money.” She watched as they walked to the door, paused to peer, and then continued on their way. “That's the way it's been all day,” she said with a sigh. “None of the tourists believe there's more to this place than alfalfa and barbed wire.”

“Show me around, but skip the barbed wire. I've been hearing great things about your place.”

In the past year, Patti's parents had died. Instead of moving away, she'd renovated the old place. We took our time, cruising up one aisle and down the other. She'd added rustic and unusual home accessories, jewelry, and clothing. “This place is beautiful. You've done a super job of holding onto your roots and expressing your artistic side. Folks are going to love it.” I gave her a quick one-armed squeeze around her shoulders. “I'm so proud of you.”

Her grin was as wide as the store's center aisle. “About time you made it over here to see it for yourself.”

As we toured the store, I continued to mull over why the auction was so important to the festival committee. “You don't know Elaine and her cronies,” I said. “If they don't raise more money with the auction each consecutive year, they consider the event a fiasco and their reputations tarnished.”

We made our way to the front corner of the store, closest to the window displays of antique furniture and whatnots, and lowered ourselves into a couple of gently worn wingback chairs. “Which I gather must be a fate worse than death,” Patti said. “After that argument about the auction, Melanie was distressed. Told me a couple of things that I bet she wished she hadn't.”

“Like?”

She leaned forward for dramatic effect. “Melanie doesn't know what to do with all of Dixie's jewelry that's still at the studio.”

“She should call Ty. He is Dixie's only living relative.” I was surprised that the deceased jewelry maker had left any of her trinkets on consignment at Melanie's studio. On the night of her murder, she'd made it sound as if she'd already packed up her goods and wiped the dust of the place from her feet.

“Ah, but she doesn't want to do that until the committee goes through all of it and decides what to put in the auction.”

“They don't have a choice.”

Patti chuckled. “You should have heard Melanie going on and on about how she was afraid to call Ty, acting as if his lifestyle would rub off on her over the phone.”

“I'd be worried that he'd sell it all to settle his gambling debts.”

Distracted for a moment, Patti straightened a decorative stack of journals on a nearby end table. She picked one up and handed it to me.

On the cover of the beautifully bound book was a picture
of a herd of longhorns, their faces thoughtful and wise. “Why, this is one of yours!” The image was from a series of photographs she had on display at Milagro. On closer inspection, the bookmarks bore her images as well.

“I like them.” She shrugged and changed the subject. “Melanie mentioned that Dixie's pieces might double or triple in value now that she's dead.”

My spirits sank. “I wonder what the sheriff would say about who has the rights to Dixie's jewelry.”

“I was wondering the same thing,” she paused, “because I still have some of her pieces in my display cases.”

Bolting upright, I demanded, “What did you say?”

“Don't get all riled up. I bought them from her outright. They're not here on consignment.”

“What are you going to do with them?”

“Double the prices?” An idea flashed across her face. “I have to run over to Melanie's gallery tomorrow morning. You should go with me.”