Here Today, Gone Tamale (4 page)

“You . . . drunk . . . cow,” Melanie sputtered and stepped back. “You should be thanking me for allowing you to sell your Native American knockoffs in my gallery.” Her face flamed as she looked at one committee member after another. “Without me, she'd be selling cactus on the side of the road.”

“Maybe just this once you could email a picture to me, and I could post it the morning of the auction.” Mrs. Mayor tipped her glass for a sip from her second margarita, though the glass was clearly empty. She volunteered down at City Hall, maintaining the city's website and festival pages, though she had no experience.

Her husband cleared his throat. “She can't send it because it isn't finished.”

Dixie reached out and patted Mayor Cogburn's hand, smiling at him as if they shared a delicious secret. “I'm creating something breathtakingly beautiful. You, on the other hand, have no excuse for your shortcomings, darling.” The mayor must have caught an eyeful if the twinge of pink in his cheeks was any indication.

Without warning, Dixie lurched to her feet and pointed her finger inches from Felicia's face, cackling like a witch on
helium. “You're a better woman than me.” She drew a deep breath. “I would have left for greener pastures years ago.”

The mayor's wife gasped as if Dixie had struck her across the face. I stole a glance at her husband. The mayor was staring at the jewelry maker with enough venom to wipe out even her large frame and, indeed, the whole county. Before the cow patties could hit the fan, Aunt Linda rode to the rescue. “Why don't we all take a fifteen minute breather?”

“Speaking of
breathers
,” Dixie pulled a pack of Marlboro lights from her crocheted bag.

“No, no, no,” barked Senora Mari, reaching out as if to take the offensive object. “Take it outside.”

“Alright, I was kidding.” Dixie dropped the soft pack back into her bag with a shrug. “Geez.”

*   *   *

During the unexpected break, I presented the long-suffering committee members with flautas, quesadillas, and generous helpings of sour cream, guacamole, and pico de gallo. They swarmed the platters like flies on popsicles, and I rushed out the door, intent on rescuing Dixie from herself.

I found my aunt standing in the hallway outside the door marked
Niñas
. “How's she doing?” I asked, carrying a fresh cup of black coffee for our inebriated guest.

Rubbing the bridge of her nose, she sighed. “She's crying over some guy who deserted her for the Coast Guard during the peace movement.”

With a bang, the bathroom door sprung open and the inebriated jewelry maker spilled out. Her eyes were red, but the tears had ceased. “I need a cigarette.”

“Come on, sugar,” Aunt Linda soothed, taking her by the arm. “We'll take you outside where you can smoke to your heart's content.”

I hurried to Dixie's other side. “The cool air will feel nice, you'll see.”

“You mean it'll sober me up.”

Bingo.

We lowered her to the bench just outside the back door. “Josie's going to call your nephew to come and take you home.”

Though Ty Honeycutt spent several weeks out of the year on tour with his country western band, Uncle Eddie had booked him to play during the festival, which meant he was currently bunking at his aunt's place.

“Good luck with that,” Dixie mumbled.

“What's his phone number?” I asked.

Dixie eventually found the number on her phone, but Ty didn't answer any of the five times I called. And forget about leaving a message, his voicemail was full. Finally, I sent him a text.

“That boy's not going to answer,” she said, leaning her head back against the concrete wall behind her, “not when he's tomcatting around.”

But she was wrong. The simple reply read,
See you in fifteen.

I was torn. Should I wait with her outside? Or join Aunt Linda inside to help her smooth the committee's ruffled feathers.

“Give me that coffee,” Dixie demanded with a hint of fun. After a long swig, she set the cup beside her and eased her head back again. “And get out of here, girl,” she muttered in a drowsy voice. “He'll be here in a jiff.”

“Alright,” I gave her a grateful smile and opened the door, “but I'm coming back in fifteen minutes, and you'd better be gone.”

The kitchen was empty when I returned, except for Milagro's petite taskmaster. “Where is everyone?”

Mixing yet another, but smaller, batch of masa, the older woman gave me a look of disgust. “Flown the coop.” She sighed and added spiced chicken to the mixture. “How's Dixie?”

“Not so good.”

Shaking her head, Senora Mari quickly rinsed her hands. “I'll go talk to her. You stay here in case any birds return.”

No sooner had she gone than Mayor Cogburn and Mrs. Mayor entered. “Is there anything left to do?”

What was with these two? I wasn't about to tell them that they were both wearing Mrs. Mayor's coral lipstick. I'd learned that lesson earlier in the alley.

Melanie strode in, swinging the kitchen doors aside. “What's left to do?”

“Hey, you're back,” I said, trying to keep things light.

With a glare that could have leveled the Alamo, Melanie gritted her teeth. “Not that I had any choice in the matter.”

“Anyone want coffee or hot cocoa?” Suellen chirped as she and Ryan edged through the doors with trays of hot beverages.

Thrusting her hands on her hips, Melanie gave her sister the once-over. “Since when did you become a team player?”

Suellen giggled, flushed, and grinned from ear to ear. As she and Ryan arranged spoons, marshmallows, and other condiments, she snuck longing glances at the young coach. Another female fan in the making.

Elaine Burnett paused in the doorway to give her daughters a look of loving approval. “Oh, I knew you'd do the right thing,” she said, giving Melanie a big hug. She satisfied herself by merely patting Suellen's shoulder. “You too, sweetheart.”

Picking up a cup of cocoa and a spoonful of mini marshmallows, Melanie smirked. “What else could we do after you laid one of your guilt trips on us?”

A spasm of discomfort passed over Elaine's countenance, and she pressed a hand to her stomach.

“Are you all right?” Senora Mari asked as she entered from the back.

With a sigh, the committee chairwoman gave her an uncomfortable smile. “I'm fine.” She hesitated. “I can't always eat spicy food, no matter how delicious.”

“Mother?” Suellen's concern was apparent.

“No, I'm fine.” Elaine dismissed her with a wave of her hand. “Our family lives up to its commitments.” She caught the eye of her youngest. “We keep our word, and we don't feel guilty.”

As Elaine and Suellen served themselves, Senora Mari took me by the arm and pulled me aside from the group. “Dixie's gone.”

I reached up and smoothed her wind-ruffled hair. “Thank goodness.”

Senora Mari pulled my head down closer to her mouth. “When do the rest of them leave?”

“As soon as you finish the last tamale,” I said with a chuckle. We both understood who was doing the lion's share of the work. Elaine was chatting quietly with the Cogburns in one corner while her daughters checked their smartphones in the other.

Talk about commitment.

“How is your little friend?” Senora Mari asked.

“Quiet as a mouse,” I answered with a wink.

“Bueno
.
”

“Hey,” Ryan called from across the room, “something's wrong with the tamales. They're soggy.”

Senora Mari shot across the kitchen like a hornet from its nest and grabbed the rest of the tamale out of Ryan's hand. “It's not soggy, you idiot. You have to let it cool.” With a groan, she grabbed her hair with both hands.

After retrieving Aunt Linda from the office to help calm her mother-in-law, I escaped to give Lenny a well-deserved doggie bagel.

*   *   *

Guests gone? Check. Tamales stored? Check. Lights off? All but the light behind the bar. “Lenny, let's hit the stairs, little man.” He blinked and snuggled into my arms. Our first community
tamalada
was behind us, and we lived to tell the tale. And I had no doubt the tale would be flying around town by
tomorrow's lunch. I flipped the switch, plunging the bar into darkness. The light from the upstairs landing trickled down the wooden stairs. My breath caught in my throat, I squeezed Lenny until he yipped, and I vowed for the umpteenth time to stop watching television dramas about serial killers.

“Did you and Ryan find things to talk about?” I asked, thinking of my bed and a pint of Blue Bell mint chocolate chip awaiting me upstairs.

My fierce protector growled low in his throat.

An engine revved as a car raced through the alley, spewing gravel against the back door. Goosebumps rippled up my arms, and I forced myself to laugh. The high school students in this flea-sized town desperately needed to find something to do other than drag the deserted streets.

“It's okay.” I rubbed Lenny's slender back, but he kicked his legs and jumped to the stairs, yapping. “Hey, come on!” I was tired and not in the mood to explain that the big, bad car was long gone.

Without decelerating, he flew by the doors marked
Niñas
and
Niños
, and then ran through the storage room and toward the back door.

“Slow down,” I muttered. It wasn't that I didn't appreciate his protective instincts but my own feet were barking from exhaustion. “Lenny, come on!” As I approached, I realized something was caught between the door and the frame. Lenny, the wee watchdog, had it in his teeth, tugging and growling.

“Whatcha got?” I knelt to gently remove the cottony fabric from his mouth and the door swung open. Beyond the swirling storm of moths above my head, the alley yawned empty but redolent with the spicy remains of the evening's delicacies. The office supply across the graveled road was cloaked in darkness due to the owner's habit of procrastinating when it came to replacing his burned out bulbs, but four stores down the light from the resale store, Wear It Again, Sam
,
burned brightly.

Lenny whined, and the strange, keening sound whipped
my head in his direction. His feathery black tail jutted out from beneath a concrete bench to the left of the door that our staff used during breaks.

“Come,” I ordered.

Only the tail moved, swinging rapidly to and fro.

“Lenny!”

He circled and came out nose first. In his mouth, he carried a grisly bone covered with dirt and drool.

“Let me see that.” I lowered my hand to his mouth. And, of course, he turned his head away. I had no choice but to grab the slimy thing. He wasn't going to choke on a small piece of bone on my watch. “Gross.” It was a discarded chicken bone, just as I suspected. “How did this get here?”

With a whine, Lenny took off again, this time for the Dumpster, the fount of fragrant garbage.

“Forget it, buster.” I wasn't about to let him stink up the apartment until I found the time to give him a bath.

My six-pound wonder took off around the side of the huge metal can, with me fuming close behind. I lunged forward, determined to scoop him up, but he disappeared around the back. Unable to stop my forward momentum, I ended up in the dirt and decided to crawl to the back and surprise him.

With great stealth, I rounded the corner and froze. Instead of a saucy, long-haired Chihuahua, a body lay before me hidden in the shadows. Just as my heart began to clog “The Yellow Rose of Texas” against my chest, I breathed a sigh of relief. Dixie lay on the ground before me, eyes wide open, smiling at the sky. Drunk as a skunk and too wasted to care.

“Whoa, Nelly. You scared me to death.” Why hadn't that blasted Ty taken her home?

Lenny barked a question. “I know, I know,” I said to calm him while I tried to find a solution that wouldn't throw my back out.

How was I going to get her up, let alone walk her to my car? “Dixie,” I said loudly and patted her hand. She didn't blink. “Time to go home.” Her flesh was cool from the
mountain air, reminding me of times as a child when I'd caught a trout and tried to hold the wriggling, slimy creature in my hands. I grabbed her by the hand and upper arm to help her sit up, but she was too out of it. Her smile never wavered, and her eyes remained open in a permanent study of the stars.

I backed away, scraping my knees, unearthing the truth.

Dixie Honeycutt was
dead.

I watched the tie-dyed fabric of her skirt rise and fall until Lenny yipped for my attention. With a sudden surge of adrenaline, my brain flew into hyperdrive. Dixie was dead. Where was my phone?

I grabbed Lenny, who immediately began wriggling like a greased pig at a county fair.

“No!” I extracted my phone from my pocket and dialed. “Dixie Honeycutt is dead,” I blurted.

“911. State your emergency.”

A hundred horror movie scenes flashed through my amped up brain. “This is Josie Callahan. I just found Dixie Honeycutt on the ground, and I'm pretty sure she's dead.”

“What is your location?”

“I'm at Milagro, 2500 Main Street in Broken Boot.”

“Have you checked her pulse?”

I bent over her body and raised two fingers, but I stopped myself when I spotted a deep furrow across her neck. Was it a heavy fold of skin or an abrasion from a necklace?

“Gently place two fingers on her wrist.”

“Okay.” I held my breath and did as the operator ordered.

“Ma'am, did you find it?”

I swallowed the panic clogging my throat. “I'm trying!”

“Ma'am,” the operator interrupted in a firm voice, “I need you to stay calm.”

I forced myself to take another deep breath. “Okay, I'm calm, but she's still dead.”

“Stay where you are. An ambulance is on its way.”

As I disconnected, Lenny jumped into the weedy gravel. Before I knew what he was about, he placed his two front paws on her chest and barked.

“Shush.” I knelt to brush him away, and my gaze edged upwards. In the concave place below Dixie's trachea, there was an odd-shaped mark. And then I recognized what I had seen earlier in the bright light of Milagro's kitchen, the shape of a horse. I glanced around, but found no sign of the horse necklace she'd worn.

As chill bumps raced down my arms, I shoved to my feet, grabbed my canine friend, and held him close. The streetlight at the end of the alley hummed and moths danced in attendance. The three-quarter moon shone bright as a Christmas star.

And Dixie lay dead. The same, but changed forever.

I said a silent prayer of thanks that I had found her and not Aunt Linda or Senora Mari. During my college internship at the
Dallas Morning News
, I'd written obituaries for the very young, the very old, and every age in between, but I'd never actually seen a dead body. Not up close and personal. I stared, unable to blink or turn away, while her skin paled and the wind whipped her skirt around her ankles.

Gradually, I became aware of my legs quivering like cactus flowers in a windstorm, so I coerced my mind into making observations about the scene before me. It would calm me down, and I would be able to respond to any questions with clarity.

The first thing I noticed was the small dusty paw prints on Dixie's dress. “Sorry, Lenster, but you've got to go.” I thrust him inside and closed the door, and he immediately began to whine and scratch.

I forced memories of Dixie's robust laugh away and concentrated on the scene before me. Someone had tossed the last of the trash and closed the Dumpster before leaving, but from where I stood, I could see that something dark and wet, probably grease, had leaked down the side of the metal container and pooled in the dirt. It wasn't how we would've disposed of kitchen grease, but I wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Unless that wayward gift horse was a member of our staff.

While it didn't take a heart specialist to figure out Dixie likely died from a heart attack, the surrounding area would be treated as a possible crime scene until the coroner determined no foul play was involved. With nothing else to do to pass the time, I decided to take a quick, but careful, look around. I removed my shoes and, keeping well away from the body, circled around for a closer look at the pool of slime. Stopping short, to avoid ruining my socks, I confirmed it was nothing but grease by the cloying smell. I removed my cell phone from the pocket of my jeans and turned on the flashlight. Whoever tossed the trash had stepped in the mess and left a boot print in the dirt.

Perfect.

Rooting in my pocket, I found a quarter and tossed it in the mud next to the print and snapped a picture to help me prove the culprit's shoe size. The next time I was accused of taking lazy shortcuts around the state health codes, I would whip out my evidence to the contrary.

With a flash of red and blue lights, the sheriff's cruiser pulled up with two officers inside. One I knew—Sheriff Mack Wallace—but the other I couldn't make out.

“Josie, you okay?” The weathered sheriff had known me
since I was a preteen. His daughter Emma and I had played softball together up and down West Texas as part of the Chisos Mountain League.

An unknown deputy walked by his side, his khaki uniform perfectly pressed and tucked, in spite of the hour. An ebony ponytail hung below his collar, and his eyes were bits of coal, fathomless in the glow of the single bulb. Perhaps it was the fact we don't see many Native Americans on this side of the New Mexico border, but the raw angles and shadows of his face formed a mask of exotic intensity.

Holy cow.

There was a moment of silence, and then Lenny's whining and scratching morphed into angry barking.

Sheriff Wallace spoke up. “Quint Lightfoot, meet Josie Callahan.”

The young deputy gave me the full impact of his expressionless stare for a moment, and then nodded. “Ma'am.”

Wallace scanned the alley. “Where is she?”

“Behind the Dumpster.”

As we stared down at her lifeless body, we remained silent for a spell, giving her the respect she deserved.

“How'd you find her?” Wallace asked the question, but Lightfoot removed a notepad and pen from his shirt pocket.

“Lenny, my dog, found a piece of her skirt stuck in the back door.” I swallowed the sudden rise of emotion in my throat. It was as if now that I wasn't alone, my bravery was threatening to leak out like dirty oil from a busted oil pan.

Lightfoot spoke up in a quiet baritone. “What time was that?”

A sudden gust of wind tossed my hair from my face. “Eleven thirty, I think.” As he made a note, tumbleweed rolled down the alley, across Dixie's body and into the parking lot beyond. My knees clanged together like two cymbals.

The sheriff took one look at my face and placed an arm around my shoulders. “Lightfoot, wait here for the ambulance
and Ellis. I'm going to take Josie inside so she can be comfortable.”

“Ellis?” I didn't want to leave her body with some stranger. I wanted her to sit up and argue and piss me off.

“The justice of the peace.” With a firm hand, the sheriff turned me toward the door. “She's okay. Lightfoot will watch over her and find out what happened.”

Over my shoulder, I saw the deputy kneel close to Dixie's body. He leaned toward her and appeared to be studying her hands.

“You mean the coroner, right? What about the ambulance?” My nerves were taut as barbed wire, and I pinched the flesh between my thumb and forefinger to keep me focused. “Where are they?”

Sheriff Wallace opened the door. “At this time of night, the local JP is called to the scene.” Automatically, I stuck my foot between Lenny and the door before he could escape. “Last I heard,” Wallace said, leading me gently through the kitchen, “one ambulance delivered a baby at the rest stop on Highway 90, this side of Fort Davis. They're driving the mother and child to the hospital as we speak. The other one should be here soon, God willing.”

Only two ambulances served the Broken Boot area and the surrounding twenty mile radius, and new life and new death had both called at the same time.

Flipping on lights as we went, we made our way to the dining room with Lenny clipping along behind. “I'll make some coffee.” Even though I had washed all the carafes an hour earlier, I had to keep my mind and hands occupied if I was to be a help to the sheriff.

“Thanks, sounds real good.”

I placed Lenny on the stairs. “It's okay, go to bed.”

With a short yip, he clicked his way up the steps to our apartment. He turned on the landing to give me one last sympathetic look, and then cruised out of sight.

I was grateful for the dark aromatic grounds and the common task at this uncommon hour. While the coffee brewed, we sat in a nearby booth.

“I've never seen . . .” I hid my face in my hands and refused to cry. “She was fine.”

Into the quiet, broken only by the gurgling of the coffeemaker and the ticking of the UT clock on the wall, Wallace spoke. “Why was she here?” His delivery lacked sympathy or overt emotion, but it steadied my fears.

I raised my head, once again in control, and lunged for his question like a swimmer in need of a life jacket. Out poured my recounting of the
tamalada
, its purpose, who had attended, and how many tamales we had made. In other words, I blabbered.

“Was there anything unusual about Dixie this evening?”

I slid from the booth and considered the sheriff's question while I poured each of us a cup of coffee. Could I share the awkwardness of the party and her less than perfect behavior without feeling disloyal? “She . . . was drunk.”

He nodded. “Did she make a stop before she arrived?” he asked, lifting his cup to his mouth.

Taking my seat, I stirred two creams and one sugar into my coffee. “I don't know, but I remember thinking she smelled of whiskey and smoke.”

He tipped up his hat with his thumb and made a note. “Cigarettes?” He glanced up.

My cheeks grew warm though I was no longer a teenager. “And marijuana.” I didn't realize the distinctive odor had registered in my brain until I said it aloud. College Dorm Living 101 had included how to recognize the smell of pot.

He raised his eyebrows and scribbled some more.

From outside, I heard the loud squeal of breaks and doors slamming.

“What's that?” I sloshed coffee on my hand. “Ack!” It was still hot.

Without a flicker of sympathy for me or curiosity for whatever was going on outside, he continued. “Ambulance, I reckon.”

“You sure?”

“Was she upset?”

“Uh, not at first.” She had arrived in a festive mood. “Later, she was kind of sarcastic and angry.”

His pencil poised above his pad, he waited.

“Nothing major happened, but she did have a disagreement with some of the committee members.” I swallowed. Calling their argument a disagreement was like calling a flash flood a trickle. I hopped up and grabbed the coffee carafe and the dish full of chocolate mints by the register.

“What about?”

I topped off our coffee, dropped the mint in my cup, and gathered my chaotic thoughts. “The committee wanted to promote this year's silent auction by adding a photo of Dixie's auction jewelry to the festival website.” I worried my lip between my teeth.

With the patience of Job, the sheriff merely took a sip of coffee and waited.

“Dixie refused, saying someone would steal her designs if she did.”

“Was that all?”

“Well, no. Some of the committee members accused her of trying to cover up the fact she hadn't actually finished making the silent auction pieces.” Words escaped me.

“And?”

I sighed. I didn't want to speak ill of the dead. “Lots of folks were angry. Accusations were thrown around. Dixie tried to make it all very personal and started insulting people.”

He smiled. “Sounds like her.”

“She even lost her temper and slammed her hand on the metal prep table in the kitchen.”

Sheriff Wallace nodded his woolly head and unwrapped a mint. “How did the committee react?”

I surprised myself by chuckling. “There was some mudslinging, but everyone chilled out once the drinks arrived.”

The sheriff tapped his pencil on the tabletop with one hand and flipped through his notes with the other. With his eyes narrowed in thought, I studied his battered face. Very Tommy Lee Jones. He wasted no words, and his fatherly manner had encouraged me to answer with care and without the rambling.

“Did you see anyone else in the alley?”

The coffee sloshed over the side of my cup again. “A coyote, that's it.” A wild animal running through town in late spring was bad enough.

Without warning, Deputy Lightfoot appeared at my shoulder. I screamed like a little girl, and like lightning, Lenny pitter-pattered down the stairs, yipping as he went.

“Oh, Lordy, I'm sooo sorry.”

He snatched off his hat. “You okay?”

Lenny hopped onto my lap, which gave me an excellent excuse to look down and hide my reddened cheeks. “I'm fine,” I crooned to my watchdog. “Just don't do that again.”

With a good-natured grin, the sheriff leaned closer. “Lives up to his name, you got to give him that.”

Fearing my face was as red as a chile pepper, I snatched up my cup for a quick sip and managed to immerse my nose in my lukewarm house blend. Sputtering, I cringed as coffee droplets jumped from my nose like swimmers from the high dive on a hot summer day.