Here Today, Gone Tamale (16 page)

With a glance at his cruiser, he nodded. “Yes, ma'am.” He placed one hand on his firearm. “What seems to be the trouble?”

A nervous tingle started in my right foot. My heart was working double-time. I squeezed Lenny until he yipped in surprise. “Shh,” I said and stroked his head with two fingers. “No trouble, officer. I tried to explain to the woman on the phone that the matter was cleared up.”

“Why don't you tell me all about it while I give you a ride home? That is unless you have your vehicle present.”

I checked my phone. No response from Patti. What an embarrassing fiasco this was turning out to be. Looking around at the empty street, I was tempted to accept. “I can walk. It's no big deal.”

“Come on. It would be my pleasure.”

“How long have you been with the sheriff's department?”

“About a month.” His grin widened.

“I should wait a few minutes for Patti, I mean Miss Perez. I'm watching her store.”

“We can wait out here,” he said, indicating the street, “or we can wait in the cruiser.”

“The cruiser's fine,” I said, hoping my embarrassment didn't show. Lenny barked in agreement, and we walked around to the passenger side. Barnes reached for the rear door and held it open as we slid across the seat.

Once he'd positioned himself behind the wheel, he asked. “What was the trouble?”

It made me uneasy to sit there without starting the cruiser, but I told myself I'd rather be inside the vehicle instead of standing on the street for everyone to see. “One of her customers was getting way out of line, acting all creepy and aggressive.” I exaggerated so as not to appear to be a big chicken. “He refused to leave until I called you.”

“Why was he aggressive? What happened?” he asked with a chuckle, shaking his head in disbelief.

I leaned forward. “I couldn't find some items this guy wanted to buy. I told him to come back later after the owner returned and he refused. End of story.” Maybe the incident had felt more threatening than it really was due to Dixie's death.

“I've never known P.J. Pratt to threaten anyone.”

Surprise, surprise. I had avoided mentioning P.J.'s name over the phone for this very reason. Even this young deputy from Ringo County was a member of Broken Boot's good ole boy network.

“I didn't say he did. I told her I didn't need assistance.” Should I jump out before the cruiser hit the road? Would the rear doors open from the inside? Trying not to telegraph my intentions, I grabbed the handle and pulled. Nothing happened.

“Where you going and what's your hurry?”

“Oh, uh, I was feeling a bit claustrophobic.” I tried to act as if butter wouldn't melt in my mouth. “I didn't know what else to do.”

He lowered the windows, admitting a breeze fragrant with mimosa. Drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, he stared out the front window and clicked his tongue against the back of his teeth. “Better?”

“How'd you know the customer was P.J.?”

“We said howdy at the light as he headed out of town.” He pushed his hat back from his forehead and studied me in his rearview mirror.

“What did he say?”

“Does it matter? He's headed back out to the ranch for supper.” He chortled like a chimpanzee. “You're safe.”

“If you think his behavior is amusing, you can open this door and let me out. I walked here, and I can walk back.” My pride gets the best of me. I blame it on spending the first twelve years of my life in Dallas, a city with a huge sense of entitlement.

“Ma'am,” he said in a gentle tone, “I meant no offense.”

I sighed. “Patti would've known how to handle him. How was I supposed to know whether or not I could sell Dixie's jewelry?”

“Where did Miss Perez say she was going?”

Shrugging one shoulder, I gave him a partial truth. “She said she had to run an important errand.”

We waited a few more minutes, but Patti didn't arrive. I checked my text messages a dozen times, but she failed to respond.

He turned in his seat and scrutinized me from hooves to horns. “Rumor has it your friend here was dognapped?”

“Who told you that?” I had only told my tale to the sheriff.

“A little birdie in the sheriff's office.”

I didn't care for this guy knowing my business, but I couldn't help myself. “Is the sheriff investigating?” I grabbed his upper arm. “Did he get a tip?”

“How about a swap?”

“What?”

“Two dozen tamales?”

“You're kidding.”

“No, I'm starving.”

What was a rookie deputy's salary? By the look of him, he wasn't eating enough to feed a peanut.

“One dozen?” he begged.

I kept my gaze averted. “To go.”

Rolling his eyes, he huffed like a teenage girl told to spit out her gum. “Deal.” He started the engine and threw it into drive. “Where to?”

“We might as well head over to Milagro and pick up your bribe.”

“Hey.”

“Get to talking.”

Slowly he cruised down the side streets, parting the slow moving cars and trucks like Moses parting the red sea. “Some gal at Elaine's Pies called in to report a dog tied up to the lamppost outside your restaurant.”

“Who was it?” And why hadn't they called us?

“Don't know. That's all I heard.”

“That merits one tamale and no sauce.”

He grunted. “How about this? Some Asian woman called in to complain that you were hassling her husband.”

“I was not!”

“Hey, don't kill the messenger. I just want the dozen.”

“Fine.” The folks in this town were supposed to be my friends, or so I thought.

When we pulled into Milagro's parking lot, I hustled to the to-go window and brought him back two dozen tamales.

“Whoa,” he said, unwrapping one immediately and shoving it in his mouth. “Lordy, that's good.”

“You're welcome.” I was hurt and ready to go inside and lick my wounds. “Thanks for the ride.”

“Hey, cut P.J. some slack,” he called out the window. “He only wanted to help Melanie make some quick dough on Dixie's jewelry now that she's dead.”

And that was the whole truth: It was all about the money.
I gave him a jaunty wave. “I'll give him so much slack, he'll think he's floating down the Rio Grande on an inner tube.” If I ever saw P.J. Pratt again, it would be too soon.

“Hey, seriously,” the deputy said, rolling up alongside me. “This drought's got his head in a vise. He only made forty-six bales of hay last year and had to buy the rest at sixty-five dollars a bale.”

Studying his earnest expression, I asked, “Why help Melanie spend money on a scheme that may or may not make her any money?”

Barnes grimaced and shook his head. “He always buys his princess some expensive geegaw after they've had a bust up.” His gaze dropped to my ring-free hand. “He's not the first man too scared to tell his wife no.”

“Okay, I get it, but tell your friend to dial back his temper a few notches.”

The window raised and lowered again. “I hate to say this . . .” He cleared his throat.

He wasn't fooling me. Whatever it was, he was busting his badge to say it.

“If you don't want to be the butt of every joke, you've got to man up. Just because a guy wants his own way, doesn't mean he's out to get you.”

“Man up?” I lifted my chin and squared my shoulders. “That's all you got?”

With a heavy sigh, he grabbed the steering wheel with both hands as if he wanted to shake it. “You should go back to your cappuccinos and bumper-to-bumper traffic and leave the country to those of us tough enough to handle it.”

I lifted my hand for a sarcastic salute, and then all of a sudden, Lenny was flying like an arrow, pulling me toward Milagro's back door. As we ran, Deputy Barnes peeled away, spraying rocks and gravel in his wake.

In spite of Aunt Linda giving me the day off, I jumped in to seat a few tables, and then hit the sidewalk to do some snooping. The local yokels had not proved helpful. Broken Boot's so-called community spirit was nowhere to be found. Why had Mrs. Cho called to complain about me? Barnes said a woman from Elaine's had called the sheriff's department, which meant the Good Samaritan was most likely one of the Burnetts. If so, why didn't they call me directly to report on Lenny's whereabouts?

Why ask why?

As I'd seated customers that evening, Ty Honeycutt's jaundiced good looks had inexplicably floated through my brain. It made no sense to me that he'd driven to Milagro to pick up Dixie, at my request, only to leave without coming inside to find her. We only had his word that he'd even bothered to make the trip.

What about Dixie's silent auction necklace? The children's home was depending on the item to make an appearance. I
was hoping if I explained to Ty how vital it was to the home's survival he would help me find it amongst her things.

Main Street still flowed with tourists checking out the local shops and restaurants. Even at this hour, couples strolled hand in hand, window-shopping in the cooler temperatures.

I decided to begin my search for Ty by heading over to Two Boots. With all the tourists in town, the best place to pick up women and a hand of Texas Hold 'Em was our dance hall. On Tuesday nights, except for the week of the festival, the Future Farmers of America met there for lively discussions on the pros and cons of fertilizing with chicken manure and other fascinating topics. During the festival we gave tourists what they wanted . . . a place to two-step to kicking music.

Texas has the largest concentration of dance halls in America. It has to do with our German and Czech ancestors, who brought their love of music and dancing to the hills and wide-open spaces of this great, if ornery, state.

Two Boots was also the best place to find a fount of juicy gossip in Tim and Mitzi, two of our bartenders. Knowing Sheriff Wallace and his deputies were busy with the festival, I decided to ferret out whatever information I could find about Ty Honeycutt on my own. First, I'd corner Uncle Eddie, and then I'd hang out with our bartending couple.

When I arrived, the crowd streaming through the door was young, old, and in between. Perfectly straight, highlighted hair and skinny jeans made me think the young ones had driven down from Dallas or Houston. As I walked in, the twang of banjo and the thump of upright bass hit me in my chest, reverberating all the way down to my toes. That night a popular band from Presidio, Trigger Finger, was playing a set of danceable, energetic country tunes. They shared funny anecdotes with the audience before each set, which I adored. I didn't know if the tourists would dig it, but in my humble opinion, that was the best part of their performance.

“ID, please, ma'am.” The doorman was short and wiry and had asked me to go to the Dairy Dream during the summer
after sixth grade. Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, I figured any awkward moments between us would be smoothed out for the price of a chocolate dip cone. I'd been wrong. The fool had wanted to kiss me . . . until I pushed him so hard he landed in the dirt.

“Vince, it's me.”

He squinted with his one good eye. “Josie, dang it, it sure is!” Though both eyes appeared to be in working order, Vince had served a tour in Iraq and lost the vision in his left eye from unforgiving shrapnel.

I offered him my right hand. He shook it and grabbed me with his other arm, wrapping me in a tight hug. “Good to see you, gal.”

“Good to be seen.” I backed away with a smile, not wanting to offend him.

“Eddie's not in the office.”

“What's happened now?”

“Some of the kegs have walked off.” He made a production out of cracking his knuckles. “When I find out who did it, they'll be drinking beer through their ear.”

Trying hard not to laugh at the image his threat conjured, I smiled. “Guess I'll check out the band.”

“Since when did you become a kicker?”

“Depends on who's playing. Crazy, huh?” In high school, I'd never really listened to country music. I'd banged my head with the best of 'em and had had a permanent crush on the two older, hotter gods of rock music, Steven Tyler and Steve Perry. I'd vowed to marry a man with long hair and the name Steve.

Over the whine of the steel guitar, I made my way down the narrow hall to the saloon. I had to turn sideways and lower my head to avoid the press of girls leaning against one wall and the young men trying to engage them in conversation on the opposite. Farther along, I nearly ended up sandwiched between a couple about to dive in for a kiss, but I managed to hold them apart long enough to squeeze through.

The stage stood on the back wall, three feet off the ground. A pool of women flanked the stage. Colored lights reflected in their eyes, making them appear as if caught in the spell of the music and the young, virile musicians. I understood their pain. Music could do that to you, mix you up, make you think the man playing the fiddle or that Gibson was sweet and sympathetic like his song.

I envied them their naive dreams, but I couldn't help but feel superior at the same time. Thanks to Brooks, I'd drunk the Kool-Aid, and my ideas about love had barely survived.

Looking around, I breathed in the fragrance of money. We were jam-packed, which meant we would be able to pay our bills for at least another few months. I kept my chin high so as not to meet the gaze of any love-hungry singles on the nearby stools, and sauntered behind the bar. I was off the market and not in the mood to be pawed or propositioned.

“Baby girl, if you aren't a sight for sore eyes,” Mitzi cried, raising her voice over the noise of the crowd. Next to her, Tim acknowledged me with a wink as he flipped bottles and mixed drinks. He was a baby-faced bruiser with a soft, squishy heart that beat for Taylor Swift and Mitzi. He didn't seem to care that his girl was fifteen years his senior as long as she dressed like a country music princess.

I laughed at Mitzi's heavy drawl, thick and sweet as peach cobbler with cinnamon ice cream. “How's it going?” I asked, hugging her around the neck.

Some impatient guy at the bar leaned in to give her his drink order, but she pointed one finger, cocked her thumb, and narrowed her eyes at him as if taking aim. He raised both hands, in mock surrender, and backed away.

She grabbed me in a one-armed hug as she continued to pour what looked like a dirty martini, heavy on the vermouth. “How you holding up?” she asked, giving me a quick once-over before handing the drink to a waitress at the end of the bar. Mitzi wore the Two Boots uniform: plaid shirt tied at the
waist, denim skirt with leather fringe around the bottom, and brown leather vest festooned with rhinestones. Only I didn't think Uncle Eddie intended for her to wear it a size too small.

“Can't complain,” I said, projecting my voice over the applause as the band finished their number.

She raised an eyebrow.

“I could . . .”

“But I won't,” she said, finishing a quip I'd learned from her many moons before. “So, what brings you out this way?”

“Ty Honeycutt.”

Grabbing me by the shoulders, she spun me toward her. “Tell me you're not mixed up with that horndog.”

I laughed and pulled away. “Not if he was the last cowboy in Texas.”

“Good thing.” She patted me on the shoulder. “That man'll chew you up, spit you out, and make you curse your momma.” Even though she delivered the line with a chuckle, I could see an old heartache in her eyes.

Leaning close, I asked, “How's he doing since Dixie died?”

She delivered a couple of strawberry daiquiris, and I could see she was choosing her words with care. “We didn't see him for a day or two, and then last night he was back, telling some tall tale about saving some woman's life over at Milagro.”

“He's a liar!”

“I'm kidding, sugar. I heard how you saved the day.” She grinned and jabbed me in the side with her elbow.

For a moment, there were no drinks to make or orders to fill. “Do you think Dixie left everything to Ty?” I asked.

“Wouldn't surprise me none. She always treated him like a son.”

“How did he treat her?”

“Like a dear old aunt.” She glanced around to confirm that no one was listening except Tim. “When she was paying attention.”

I wouldn't put it beyond Ty to have stayed with Dixie
without paying his share of rent, utilities, or groceries. Would he have truly killed her for her ancient van and the rest of her worldly possessions?

I rose to my tiptoes, but it was difficult to see through the crowd around the bar stools. “He's not playing tonight?”

“Oh, he's playing alright, just not up on stage.”

“So they do have a game going here? Does Uncle Eddie know?”

“Nah, they know Eddie'd blow a gasket.” She turned away to grab four frosty beer glasses, and began filling them with drafts from the tap. “But Ty's so desperate he's running a game out in the parking lot in Trigger Finger's van.”

“Thanks,” I said and patted her on the shoulder for good-bye.

She leaned in close. “Don't go out there.” Her eyes went wide. “You'll be as welcome as a rattlesnake, and I'd hate for you to get your tail stepped on.”

Standing here in my own backyard, so to speak, I had no fear. Ty Honeycutt had a soft spot for women. He'd nearly cried over Dixie's death and Elaine's close call. I didn't think he'd do me any harm.

“They'll be fine.” I gave her a big wink. “I'm only poisonous on Sundays.”

The band went on break to thunderous applause. In its place, canned music swelled from either Tim McGraw or Brad Paisley, one of those guys with a big hat. Couples swayed onto the dance floor, looking for an excuse to hold each other close. I located the exit and tried to maneuver my way to the back parking lot through a moving sea of bobbing heads.

“Would you like to dance?”

I turned with a polite smile and found Lightfoot way too close. “What are you doing here?” He'd abandoned his uniform for jeans and a plaid cotton shirt of the skin-hugging variety.

“Trying to relax. Won't you help a guy out?” His mouth was saying one thing, but the laser intensity of his stare was
saying something else. I didn't believe for one minute he was here to two-step.

“Uh, not tonight.” I turned away and he followed. “Look,” I said, adding what I hoped was a hint of embarrassment and frustration. “I've got to go to the little girls' room.”

“Then you're headed in the wrong direction.” His grin said he didn't believe me as far as he could throw me.

He was correct, but my family didn't own this place for nothing. “I'm headed to the employee bathroom. Please, I wouldn't go in the public restroom if you gave me a trip to Vegas.” I wasn't lying, I hated casinos.

Placing a hand on my forearm, he prevented my escape. “You don't work here.”

What happened to stoic and silent? “Listen, you should do your homework. My family owns this place.” I wanted to stamp my foot.

“You should lighten up,” he said, placing his hand at the small of my back and forcing me into the throng of slow dancers.

I could have dragged my heels, but I figured why not? It wouldn't hurt my reputation to be seen dancing with a handsome man, even if he was merely trying to pump me for information. I could discover his plan of attack without him being any the wiser. “Have you ever been here before?”

“Sure. Everybody's been to Two Boots at least once.”

“I'd bet my money you're not here to relax.” He continued to glance around the room. “You look like you're onto something, and it's not a hookup.”

“Why do you say that?” He smiled a dazzling toothpaste ad smile, acknowledging he hadn't hidden his professional interest in the customers.

“Just a hunch. What's up?”

“Looking for an old friend of mine.”

“Maybe I can help. What's his name?”

“You wouldn't know him.”

“Let me guess,” I smirked, “Ty Honeycutt.”

The dazzling smile disappeared.

“If you're Ty's friend you know he's probably playing cards out in Presidio tonight,” I said.

He tried to stare me down and nearly drove us into another couple, Texas two-stepping around the throng. “How about we trade information?”

“What makes you think I'm interested?” I held my breath, praying he'd give me a fresh lead.

“'Cause you think you can solve this murder.”

How'd he know? “I think crime belongs in the hands of the sheriff's department.” I pretended to study the dancers on either side of us until my thoughts were hidden.

We turned, which brought us closer than before. “I hear you used to work for the
Austin Gazette
. You're a big-time reporter.”