Here Today, Gone Tamale

by Rebecca Adler

  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.

  Lightfoot found a place setting from a nearby table, unwrapped the silverware, and handed me the cloth napkin. “Was Dixie wearing a necklace tonight?” he asked in a voice so deep it jangled my nerves.

  Without a doubt, I thought the sheriff was going to throttle him. Lightfoot pulled up a chair, and Wallace glared at him. “No need to speculate, deputy.” He shot a glance my way. “Why don’t you stay with Linda and Eddie tonight? You’ve been through the wringer.”

  “She wore a tribal necklace, one of her own designs.” I closed my eyes, filled my lungs with air, searching for the image. “Horses chiseled from different gem stones.”

  “And?” Lightfoot asked softly.

  Sheriff Wallace’s voice rose. “It’s time for her to go, deputy. Your questions will keep until tomorrow.”

  My hand found the soft, concave spot at the base of my neck. “A large horse in the middle.”

  “Which stone was it?” Lightfoot asked.

  An image of Dixie, leaning close to the mayor, entered my brain. “Turquoise. It was blue turquoise.”

  Chapter 4

  I awoke the next morning, staring at a ceiling full of stars, and exhaled. I was safe. I was in my twin bed in my aunt and uncle’s house. Twinkling above me were shiny bits of crystal Aunt Linda had painted into the ceiling when I was a child. If I woke from nightmares or troubling dreams I would search for the Big Dipper and the North Star until I fell asleep.

  How I wished that Dixie’s death had been only a bad dream. But it was real, as real as the crick in my neck from a flat pillow and the aroma of bacon and biscuits floating through the house. If I closed my lids, I would see Dixie’s wide blue eyes staring up at me while her tie-dyed skirt flapped in the wind. How long could I go without closing my eyes?

  Last night, the enigmatic Deputy Lightfoot had brought me to my childhood home without any further questions. By the look on his angular face, I knew he suspected foul play. Why else would he be interested in Dixie’s necklace? Sheriff Wallace must have called ahead because my family stood waiting on our wide front porch in their pajamas and T-shirts. Senora Mari was pacing back and forth in her fluffy pink robe and giant elephant slippers. They threw their arms around me and hugged me hard u
ntil Lenny complained. We tried to laugh, but the sounds we made faded away on the wind as we remembered not just anyone had died, but a three-times-a-week customer and friend. We’d wiped our tears, even Uncle Eddie, and then I’d dragged myself upstairs and fell into bed.

  “Josie,” Aunt Linda called up the stairs bright and early, “the AC’s out at Milagro. Dress accordingly.” I had not wriggled an inch, but her spidey sense was working overtime.

  “And don’t forget your neck,” Senora Mari added. As if I could forget her wacky method of staying cool in the Texas heat. I had to smile, for she was obviously treating me with unusual sympathy. During high school, she would have dropped a cold, wet washcloth in my face if I slept past nine o’clock.

  After a quick shower, I found some old clothes in my closet: an atrocious broom skirt, a Corona T-shirt, and a faded, blue bandana. Nothing was going to take the place of the AC, but I knew Senora Mari would argue and nag until I tied a wet bandana around my neck, her idea of the next best thing.

  “Hurry up. You can eat breakfast when we get there,” Aunt Linda called, answering my question before I could ask.

  Dressing for a day without air conditioning in far West Texas can be like prepping for a day in hell. The air is cool in the early morning, but it climbs to a fever pitch by ten o’clock. Imagine standing in an oven until you’re broiling and your skin flakes off like the skin of a pan-seared tilapia.

  Only cowboys and ranchers venture into the full afternoon sun in Broken Boot, Texas. They pick their battles out here in the Chihuahuan Desert by taking long breaks in the hottest part of the day, which comes in handy if they’ve stayed up too late the night before tipping longnecks at Two Boots.

  A week ago, the AC at Milagro petered out during the late rush, and nine people had to sweat it out. With any luck, they convinced themselves the chile diablo was to blame.

  “Josie!”

  I could picture Aunt Linda now, standing at the bottom of the stairs, her image indelibly in my brain just as her energetic voice was scratched into my eardrums. She would be wearing her chestnut hair smoothed into a sleek and serviceable bun at the back of her head with a red flower pinned above her ear. Her hands would be on the hips of her Wranglers, tapping the toe of her Tony Llama boots, a wet, red bandana at her neck. Beautiful, and not to be tangled with.

  “Coming!”

  “I’ll believe it when I see it.” Moments later the garage door rose with a squealing groan. No biscuits and bacon for me.

  Today the sheriff would ask me more questions, and I would be strong with my family behind me. During my shower, I’d wracked my brain. What else could I tell them?

  Hungry and nervous, I slid into the passenger seat of Aunt Linda’s white F150, lowered the visor, and began to apply my mascara in the mirror.

  “Did you write your article for the Bugle?” my aunt asked in an overly optimistic tone.

  She knew I’d submitted a couple of articles to the Broken Boot Bugle, and that they’d rejected both, saying they weren’t folksy enough. Then last week, the editor made me an offer I longed to refuse. He wanted me to write an article about Hillary Sloan Rawlings and her new position at the university to prove I could give his readers what they wanted.

  Folksy I could do, but Hillary was an unsavory morsel. At my aunt’s urging, I told him I’d get right on it, as soon as we recovered from the festival.

  Now if I were to cover something interesting like the Texas music scene, I’d be happier than a tornado in a trailer park. Even though Two Boots was located in a small town, it attracted the best musicians in Texas. And Texas music was no longer just for kickers and cowboys. Lots of hot guys played new country, alternative country, country western, country rock . . . you get the idea. Uncle Eddie had been playing guitar in a country rock band when he met Aunt Linda, so I came by my love of Texas music and hot musicians honestly.

  I slammed the visor shut.

  Most musicians were also no good, unreliable narcissists, who put their careers before their nuptials. Brooks was a slime bucket full of putrid flesh.

  “Josie, don’t worry about that weak, silly boy. You’re strong.”

  I jumped in surprise and banged my knee on the dash. “Ow!” Of course, Senora Mari would be in the backseat. Where else would she be? And did I mention she’s a mind reader?

  “You’re a Callahan,” Aunt Linda proclaimed, and I laughed in spite of myself. “Callahans are sturdy stock,” we said in unison. The paternal side of my family had settled in neighboring Cogburn County back in the 1800s, long before running any type of drinking and dancing establishment was considered an honorable profession.

  “Did you have a good night’s sleep, abuelita?” When she didn’t correct me, I turned around in my seat and found her clutching her rosary beads, her lips moving soundlessly.

  With a shudder, she opened her eyes and pierced me with a bone-snapping stare. “No. I had a visitor in my dreams.”

  As if someone had walked on my grave, I shuddered as well. When Marisol Ramos Martinez said she had a visitor in her dreams, she meant a person who had passed on.

  “No wonder,” my aunt said, “what with Dixie dying unexpectedly right there.”

  I rested my chin on the top of the seat between us, settling in for a spooky tale. “What did Dixie say?” I wasn’t sure I believed what Senora Mari spouted from her dreams, but she set great store by them.

  Taking a deep breath, she paused for dramatic effect. “Nada.” And she nodded as if she’d bestowed a great pearl of wisdom. “Nothing.”

  “Do you mean she said the word nothing or that she didn’t speak?” Aunt Linda asked with exasperation.

  Without acknowledging her daughter-in-law, Senora Mari gave me a baleful stare and whispered, “She didn’t speak, no words, but she poured her thoughts into my mind.”

  From previous experience, I knew better than to interrupt or try to lead the tortuous story.

  “She was angry and sad.” She closed her eyes and crossed herself. “She wants revenge.”

  “Revenge on whom, the cigarette manufacturers?” Aunt Linda shook her head. “Tell her to get in line.”

  Without looking in my aunt’s direction, I pinched her leg. I wanted to hear this one, but if she continued with her skeptical remarks, Senora Mari would clam up.

  “She didn’t give me a name, but she told me it was no cigarette.”

  I wasn’t about to correct my elders, even if she had said moments before that Dixie had used no words. “Did she give you a vision of how she died?”

  Senora Mari pursed her lips and turned to stare out the window. A shadow of pain passed over her face. “She was so cold, so cold she couldn’t breathe.”

  Had I mentioned Dixie’s cold clammy skin to the three of them when I finally arrived home last night? No, but Senora Mari would’ve noticed the cool air and gusts of wind. I turned to my aunt for support. “If you die from a heart attack you probably do feel as if you can’t breathe. Right?”

  “Oh, sure,” Aunt Linda chimed in. “You see that on television all the time. Someone dies grabbing their heart, gasping for air.” She smiled reassuringly at her mother-in-law in the rearview mirror. “I bet they go hand in hand.”

  “That may be true, but that was not the feeling she shared.” Senora Mari pulled back her shoulders and lowered her chin. “Someone stole her life, and she wants me to do something about it.”

  I reached over the seat and placed my hand on hers. “I’m sorry your friend is dead.”

  She nodded and turned to stare out the window once again.

  As I started to pull away, she grabbed my hand. “You believe me, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I do.” I believed Dixie had appeared in her dreams, and I was open-minded enough to concede there was more to life than the physical before us. But I wasn’t sure Senora Mari had interpreted her dream correctly. Did be
ing cold and out of breath mean that something nefarious had happened to Dixie? I wasn’t sure.

  As we drove down West Third Street, beneath a gigantic banner heralding Broken Boot’s 5th Annual Wild Wild West Festival, I wondered if Dixie’s death would affect the tamale-eating contest. I considered myself to be sensitive and unselfish, and my line of thinking made me feel as low as a snake’s belly. But we needed the tourists to come in droves to survive the winter ahead. Our business had picked up in the past three months since Milagro made the cover of The Texan magazine last September, but we needed to double it to keep West Texas Savings and Loan off our backs.

  “Did we make enough tamales for the contest?” I asked, trying to lighten the mood. With any luck, this year’s event would draw more folks seeking good ole family fun and savory Tex-Mex. Our entire town could sure use a boost in the present economy.

  “Senora Mari’s making another batch today, just in case.”

  I swung around in my seat. “You’ll need us to help you, right?” Making tamales was usually fun, but that’s because it was a group activity. Sharing the work and gossiping with family made it less tedious.

  The older woman shrugged. “I can do it by myself. I usually do.”

  “What do you mean?” Aunt Linda asked in a panic. “Where’s Carlos? Is his mother okay?”

  I wanted to laugh, but I bit my tongue. Senora Mari had once again taken on the role of family martyr, which was ridiculous because she usually made tamales with the help of Carlos, our to-go cook.

  Instead, I changed the subject. “How are all those tamales going to keep until Saturday?”

  “We had to freeze the ones for the contest,” my aunt said.

  “Humph.” Senora Mari disliked serving anything that wasn’t fresh, but we’d finally convinced her that the tamales for the contest weren’t eaten because of their freshness. They were consumed in great quantities because people wanted to win a month’s worth of free tamales from our restaurant.

  Turning onto Main Street, the asphalt shimmered with heat like a mirage in the desert. The LED sign at First Cogburn Bank flashed ninety degrees at ten twenty-nine in the morning. A scorcher.